Every five to eight years, Sandovalemerges from her cocoon with a new album, then tours, a ritual in which sheseems to take no pleasure. She literally hides from her audiences, performingon stages lit dimmer than a nocturnal animals hut at a zoo. She was barelyvisible at Sunday night’s Pabst Theater performance, save for the petitesilhouette she formed against a backdrop of dancing apparitions cast from awhirling film projector in the balcony. Sandoval barely addressed the audience,earning some of the biggest applause of the night when she emitted an almostaccidental “thank you” after 45 minutes without acknowledging the crowd. It waslike seeing an actor break the fourth wall.
The silhouette on stage was so anonymous,in fact, that it would have almost been easy to wonder whether she was the realHope Sandoval if not for her voicethat supple, sullen, unmistakable voice.Plenty of younger singers have tried to imitate it, as if with just the rightamount of reverb they could somehow replicate Sandoval’s indelible mystique,but none have been able to find the right balance of sensuality and authority.Sandoval’s trick is that she only sounds like a broken doll on the surface; underneaththere’s a stern core.
Sandoval spent her short set singingcautionary love songs from her two solo records with the Warm Inventions, thebest moments doing justice to, but never surpassing, Mazzy Star’s. After atwo-song encore, she fled the stage while still under the cloak of darkness,never issuing so much as a customary “good night.”
