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(Via The Quietus)

The live album – especially in rock and pop – is a curious beast, often seen as little more than a way of rinsing cash out of a dedicated fan base; a means to keep enthusiasm for an artist ticking over when they have temporarily lost contact with their creativity through “exhaustion”, or a way of plugging the gap until a “real” album turns up. But given how much rock (and funk and soul and metal and any other genre that thrives on the promotion of 'virtuoso’ musicians) is supposed to be all about chops, the mercurial talent of the idolised star, the supposed authenticity of the real experience versus the supposed sterility of the engineered artefact, this is plain weird.




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