Waiting for How to Dress Well to arrive at Brighton Dome is a little like waiting for an ascension. It’s Monday evening and people stream into the Studio Theatre, an enclosed, egg-like space that feels more like a chapel. The only sounds are the drip of beer foam and the occasional pocket of conversation. Everyone’s eyes are fixed anxiously on the stage, where instruments glint like precious relics. The crowd continues to grow and by nine o’clock there’s a tight semi-circle of bodies surrounding the stage, crooning out How to Dress Well’s name as if in worship.
How to Dress Well is the stage name of Tom Krell, philosophy graduate turned experimental pop producer. Since the release of his 2010 debut album, Love Remains, Krell has been at the forefront of non-conventional R&B, celebrated for breaking the genre down to its barest form and redressing it in layers of synthesizer and trembling falsetto. His otherworldly pop songs span three albums and numerous mixtapes but it wasn’t until his recent studio release What Is This Heart? that Krell gained crossover appeal between the underground and commercial music scenes.
Just as the room begins palpitating in impatience, the lights blot out and Krell emerges from backstage shrouded in shadow. He comes out with minimum drama, just a gangly guy in a white t-shirt, and if it wasn’t for the sudden bolt of energy that ripples through the crowd, he could be mistaken for a member of the backing band. A show like this should be cake for Krell; he’s been performing for years and in sold out venues much larger than the Studio Theatre. Yet he comes out with a crease between his eyes and his mouth twisted into a knot. He looks unsure of himself, even shy, and as a black and white projection plays out behind he paces the stage like an anxious panther.
Long bones, softness, intensity, torment; these are the words that best describe How to Dress Well’s performance. Krell groans his way through the opening song, “A Power”, with its tribal cross-rhythm and blood-deep beat. From below, Krell looks like he’s in the throes of a fever, his voice hitting a startling crescendo and his hands clutching the microphone stand like a life line. It’s a crazed beginning to the set and by the time Krell releases the mic, fingers stark white and sweat dripping down his collarbone, he looks newly energised. A girl raises her glass in salute and he grins. “Cheers,” he murmurs, tentatively meeting the audience’s eyes as he towels his damp hair.
The rest of Krell’s set list is an exercise in contrast, combining moments of high voltage force with softly sweet interludes. After the stark opener he dives into “Face Again”, a nightmarish trip-hop number with demonic vocal samples and unsettling lyrics. “Look me in the face and tell me what you want to see,” he caws, as the song’s sticky miasma coats the crowd. In comparison, his hit single “Repeat Pleasure” comes with the kiss of a summer. It’s feather-light and blissfully optimistic, adorned with starry-eyed imagery, and its jubilant chorus soon has the entire room dancing.
Other songs reveal just how talented Krell is outside of the post-production gloss of the studio. When the band delves into the neo-soul sting of “Cold Nites”, Krell’s androgynous quiver is haunting and evocative. It sounds like an instrument crystallised into speech and as Krell shudders out poetry in a half-mournful, half-aroused cry, the entire audience swoons. Another spine tingling moment comes with the languid “Two Years (Shame Dream)”, where Krell recounts a childhood memory of going on a car journey with his family. It’s a simple song but played live it’s shockingly surreal, and shows how Krell can take the most ordinary of situations and imbue them with magic.
Any vulnerability Krell lets slip at the beginning of the show is soon eclipsed. In person he looks bookish and melancholy but as the set unfolds, he experiences a sort of transcendence. One of his best moments comes with the gauzy love letter “Very Best Friend”, where Krell hurls himself across the stage with a smile and his hands in the air. In moments like this you get the sense that Krell may only be truly comfortable when he’s performing, that music is the means by which he can shed an uncomfortable skin. As the concert progresses, Krell starts to look like a fish that has returned to water, a fluid and ghostly sketch of white limbs, and it's beautiful to see.
Krell is also surprisingly down to earth, showing no pretence or ego. Between songs he repeatedly thanks the audience and touches on a number of subjects with vibrant detail. He reminisces about friends with frank, hilarious anecdotes, and then in sudden, starkly-lit moments, ruminates over their deaths. He describes growing up in stifling suburbs of Colorado, and talks about the patchwork trail he followed from New York to Germany. Despite the size of the crowd these moments feel strangely intimate, as if Krell has spotted you and is speaking directly into your ear.
After an hour and 20 minutes on stage, Krell slips away with his head down in the darkness. The crowd wail for more but he is done for the evening. As everyone leaves, still bubbling with adrenaline, there’s a flicker of movement behind the curtain but no one emerges. Krell is alone with his daydreams and demons until he plays in London the following night. He makes a strange pop star, a softly-spoken academic who escapes the harsh scrape of everyday life through music, but he’s also intense and revolutionary. When Krell plays you forget all who came before him, and it may be that his arrival could conjure a new generation of intelligent, introspective pop stars.
For more on How to Dress Well and the European Tour dates, visit www.whatisthisheart.com.
