The Prids deserved a far better audience than they got at the Larimer Lounge on Monday.
Fake nostalgia for the ’80s is coming to an end, thankfully. The retro cocaine culture immortalized in American Apparel’s porn ‘n’ Polaroid advertising is growing as tired as the sight of yet another pair of knock-off neon Ray Bans or the embarrassing re-prints of the infamous “Frankie Says Relax” T-shirts. (I’ve often wondered if the kids wearing such shirts even know who Frankie Goes to Hollywood were in the first place, because I’m old and I judge teenagers like that.)
But thankfully, a band like exists. Capturing what was musically elegant, desolate and beautiful about the ’80s, the Prids’ show on Monday night at the was like a welcome step back in time.
They opened a relatively short set with a sped-up version of “Back Up Slow,” guitarist David Frederickson and bassist Mistina Keith’s crystallized voices leaving their lips and immediately becoming intertwined, his bellows providing the darker layer underneath her angelic cries. The long personal history between the founding members was obvious in the way their on-stage moves seemed to mirror each other, and was only highlighted by their gorgeous and haunting dual harmonies.
Synth-heavy songs such as “Before We Are” and “Like Hearts” offered plenty of reasons why the Prids sound, feel and look like a lost band from Factory Records’ heyday, but they managed to make the delicate, dreary sounds current and all their own.
A quick but mighty encore of “Contact” thundered through the near-empty venue, Keith’s bass line towing the rest of the instruments and vocals behind her as she dominated with precision and brutality. “All That You Want” was a graceful exit, Keith and Frederickson’s voices coming together once again in a joyous and savage manner.
The only disappointing part of the evening was the fact that the audience was made up of a few music writers, their friends and members from the opening bands. I’m not quite sure if the Prids fell victim to a bad Monday night slot or if there just wasn’t enough warmth from the press to generate a bigger crowd. Regardless, it was irritatingly sad to see a wonderful band like the Prids play to a such cold and forsakenly empty space.
Bree Davies plays bass in , writes about her obsessions with Iggy Pop and Lil’ Wayne in and repeatedly fakes her own death at . She is also a self-proclaimed addict.
