Andrew Craig
Jena Malone's "Shoe" fits nicely into quirky L.A. scene
May 23, 2008, at what could hardly be called a music venue
By Melissa Bobbitt
Published: May 25th, 2008 | 8:35pm
They say that the right songs can take you places. They can send you on a journey that no plane ticket or itinerary could ever accommodate. Sometimes you just want to bundle them up in a portable package and take it with you wherever you roam so you can always feel that sensation you get when you hear it — have music in my heart, will travel.
Perhaps it’s this notion that led to the Shoe, a beguiling project from actress Jena Malone (The Ruins, Saved!) The moniker refers to both her musical venture with pianist Lem Jay Ignacio and to the curious contraption she built from random samplers, keyboards, and an old-fashioned steamer trunk. From it emerge squelches, squeaks, and other perplexing noises that suggest Malone isn’t content to play it safe in a town where Dogstar and the ilk are practically punch lines.
The Shoe’s idea of “touring” isn’t conventional, either. Ignacio says his band mate eschews traditional venues, and isn’t looking for 30 Second to Mars–level exposure for her insular, folksy, and wonderfully weird oeuvre. So the duo took to setting up shop in locations far removed from the usual din of the big city: a field alongside the depleted Los Angeles River, a rooftop, some dude’s living room … Just two 20-somethings, their musical wares and the hum of a generator — no pretense, just art.
The outings, dubbed the Treasure Map Tour, concluded May 23 at what was referred to as the “Chapel of Love.” It wasn’t outlandish enough for the Shoe to perform at a real chapel; they opted for a cozy Koreatown home that had a makeshift confessional booth on the lawn. About 30 people attended the intimate and ultimately rained-out gathering that later reconvened inside the house. Beers were swigged and pet chihuahuas scurried about as Malone mewed along to her and Ignacio’s reverberant tones.
The songs resembled a hypothetical meeting of Regina Spektor and Björk’s minds. There was the plaintive “Raccoon,” a tinkling, ramshackle ballad in which Malone’s vocals barely cracked above a whisper. “Landslide Nation” unremorsefully poked fun at the wealthy who build their garish homes atop fragile Malibu hillsides. She writhed and spoke volumes with the contortions of her fairylike face, and giggled as the skies began to drip. Her persona is one to be applauded in Hollywood — she sparkles naturally, never allowing the phony glitter of the industry to jade her. She is not a paragon of manufactured perfection (nor are her quirky songs), and we love her all the more for it.
Issue #35
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