Author’s Note: My blog’s focused on movie reviews, but eh, why not shake it up a bit? What follows is a review of a concert I recently attended. Hope you enjoy it.

Noel Gallagher is cool. If The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck had not already been written, surely Mr. Gallagher would have penned a better version. The former Oasis co-frontman and main songwriter entered the West Palm Beach Amphitheater’s stage promptly at 8 pm. Wearing a plain black polo and jeans, it might be more accurate to say he snuck onto the stage. Except, Noel never sneaks; he saunters. Flanked by four backup singers and his band, his presence was incognito amid the group of people until he started singing into the central microphone. “Oh, there’s Noel.”

What followed was a sturdy set of laid-back rock tunes. Even the Oasis “covers” (it’s weird to call them covers when the dude who actually wrote the songs sings them) that closed out the show were part of the rock band’s more relaxed oeuvre. “Live Forever,” which is usually a harder rocking tune, began with a softer, strummed acoustic guitar before ending up where it needed to, a heart-bursting electric guitar solo.

The show, a double bill split between Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds and 90s rockers Garbage (with dance rock outfit Metric opening), took place on June 21, the summer solstice. The sun refused to go down until after 8:30, though a thunderstorm was hanging around the outskirts of the open-air arena, cracking the sky regularly with spaghetti-strap lightning. The brewing storm prevented air from entering the arena. Nothing moved. We sweltered. To call it sweat would do no justice to the amount of water I was losing. I felt like I was sitting in soup. Like I was sitting inside a Garbage song. More on that later.

Noel’s relaxed sonic atmosphere matched the time of the year perfectly. Yeah, it’s hot, the songs seemed to say, so just chill. And chill we did, letting the music wash over us. By the time the sky ripped open and the storm loosed blasts of cool air through the aisles, we were as elated by the break in the sticky humidity as we were by the steadily climaxing music.

Don’t think just because the music was on the gentler side that it wasn’t muscular, though. This wasn’t a James Taylor concert. The drums kicked, the guitars squealed, and Noel sang his heart out, his voice echoing loudly through the amphitheater. I never much liked Noel voice when he took the mic in Oasis. Next to brother Liam’s distinctive wail, Noel’s voice sounded plain, like beige golf pants. But I’ve come around to it, especially since he embarked on his solo career with the High Flying Birds. His voice may still be a bit trouser-y, but it has an emotionality and a power I never noticed before.

Throughout all of this, Noel Gallagher basically stayed put at his microphone. Sometimes he’d step back to change guitars, but that was about it. I had a running bet with my brother; how long before Noel even acknowledged the audience? The answer is three songs. His banter was short and unintelligible. Maybe he just cleared his throat into the mic? After “Open the Door, See What You Find” from latest album, Council Skies, Noel crossed his arms over his guitar and resignedly addressed the audience, like a homework assignment he didn’t want to do, a student grudgingly make a presentation to his class. He asked, “So…what’s new?” When the answers weren’t forthcoming, he repeated the question as if it wasn’t rhetorical. It wasn’t contempt for the audience. That would have been obnoxious. No, this was pure not-giving-a-fuck-ness. “Let’s get on with it”. “I just want to play music.” Pure Noel. I loved it.

Clearly Noel has very little traditional charisma on stage. But in a weird way, because he is so utterly lacking in charm and because he so doesn’t care about it, it all somehow doubles back around and becomes charisma again. He’s a treasure.

If Noel is the antithesis of charisma, Shirley Manson is the very definition of it.

A 30-minute break followed the end of Noel’s encore-less set. In that time, all of Noel’s stage tchotchkes were removed—a lot of flowers, surprisingly, and much to my Liverpool supporting brother’s chagrin, a Manchester City Placard that was lit up in blue LEDs—and replaced by…a drum set. For much of the break, the only proof of Garbage’s imminent arrival was that lone, though impressively large, drum set.

When Shirley Manson and company entered the stage at 9:38, not much changed. It was still as bare as Noel’s was cluttered. Bric-a-brac wasn’t necessary. It just would have gotten in the way of Manson, who prowled the stage like a predator searching for prey.   

Shirley Manson is a rock star, and she spent the band’s set proving it. She bantered, told stories, sang happy birthday to an audience member, pulled a pride flag from said audience, paraded it around the stage, and declared Garbage’s enduring support for the LGBTQ community while respectfully folding the pennant—which now smelled like her perfume, she quipped—and returning it back to the crowd, who were clearly delighted.  

There’s a reason Garbage has been around for close to thirty years, and Manson is it.

Though, they’re no friggin’ slouches when it comes to their music either. Starting the set with “Supervixen” from their self-titled 1995 debut, Garbage grabbed the audience by the throat. Nighttime had descended on the amphitheater; the darkness fit the group’s music like a wetsuit. We weren’t in Noel Gallagher’s chill zone anymore.

Founding member Butch Vig’s trademark wall of sound production exploded in the live setting. Instead of sitting in a bowl of weather-induced soup as I was earlier, I was now in a thick sonic miasma created by Garbage. The band’s silent loud dynamic was in full force as well. When the razor-sharp guitars erupted, they (I counted two guitarists) blasted me into the back of my seat. When the bass was left to its own devices, it pummeled and seduced in equal measures. I was in pure rock bliss. And then there was Manson, belting and snarling the words, selling the songs’ fury and sensuality.

The double bill confused me at first. What did Noel Gallagher and Garbage have in common besides their 90s heyday? Not much. But that was the point. Yin and Yang, light and dark, the juxtaposition of these two artists complemented each other perfectly, Gallagher’s cool warmth and Garbage’s compulsive corrosion resulted in a beautiful night of music.

-Pavel Klein