The earthy, muted Capitol Theater at the Overture Center provided a canvas for the Baraboo-raised and Madison-propelled band, Phox. Organic in tone and tune, Phox surprises like a midwest spring; cloudy then pouring, dark and muddy. Interludes give way to luminescent rainbows.
After six years serenading Wisconsin and eventually the world, the five-piece team will part ways for new ventures.
Young fans pressed forward to catch a glimpse of Monica Martin, the part-goddess, part-frontwoman, to hold her autumn voice close like a shell that, when pressed up to ears, reveals ocean waves.
Preluding the main event, the lead gave friend, Sasha, the mic, teasing the audience with poems mocking ex-boyfriends and dancing around themes of race with candor, self-deprecation and strength. Black History Month commenced on Wednesday and Martin wanted to recognize that.
Sasha opened up her life in a clever confessional. “I will get divorced three times,” she said. The crowd cackled.
The performance was a sweet surprise, bridging the gap between audience and artist. This connection was evoked through the acoustic opener ‘Cuddle Magic,’ abandoning the stage to serenade the Capitol theater’s standing audience from within the crowd. Ending with a chill, Sasha uttered, “She says my heartbeat is normal and I have to believe her.”
Then, digital stars lit the slate-blue ceiling as the whimsical quintet entered. Trumpet and piano adorned the venue as Martin entered with cascading, blush pants. As they began to dance with sound, her voice flooded the room.
Time passed slow. Accompanied by members of ‘Cuddle Magic’ on flute and trumpet, the room savored every note. Whisky befriending the songstress, she stole sips between melodies. It was a sendoff party. “1936” began, a fitting soundtrack to the melancholy of the night.
Synchronized, they could do this in their sleep. However, this did not make for a dry performance; rather, it gave space as Martin’s voice mixed with bassist Jason Krunnfusz and keyboardist Matteo Roberts’, harmonizing with notes cascading like rain through sunshine.
The band made the stage home, not afraid to joke mid-song or even restart a measure if needed. Though parting ways, embellishments adorned their pieces with echoes of electronica.
Ending “Evil,” a revealing tune respinning abuse into hopeful resolve, Martin subtly described her life journey, stating bluntly, “Now, we go from someone who never deserved a song to someone who did.”
The single-album band’s opening track rang out, nearly accapella save the simple, stellar bass line by Krunnfusz. “Promise you’ll never go away,” belted Martin in her soft-yet-powerful way. In the eyes of the crowd, the sentiment was returned. With Postal Service-like charm and discography, Phox leaves the world wanting more as the audience sang along to the words, “I might never love again.”
Warmed up, the band came together to create for the last time something only they can. Though each will go on to birth new ideas, this collaborative force thrilled in its finale, ending on the highest note fathomable.
Whiskey-filled voice lamenting love-passed, viridescent light that lit the lead’s powerful curls as music ceased; her words filled the space. Then, a song within a song began with new rhythms protruding from the stage. Unrestrained by tempo and consistency, Phox surprised by building from a foundation of musical basics, then going off the rails as necessary.
“It all started here in Madison,” said Martin as she spoke of the atmosphere and the city of “beautiful magic.” Then claps and stomps erupted as the band’s hit, “Slow Motion,” began. Feeling more like a kumbaya than a performance, the whole room engaged with whistles and words.
In a liaison of words melding together and obfuscating sentences, Martin transformed her voice into an instrument; a part of the whole. The woman that set apart the genre-bending team with her vocal gravitas sent a grand message for the tragic and the good in life with lyrics of “Blue and White,” proclaiming, “I belong to me alone.”
Leaving and returning with a baritone ukulele, Martin faced the ‘60s-esque mic as fans faced the future without her. “Wondering if I ever met you at all… Was it make believe or was it make believe.” With half a decade of musical magic past, it clearly was not make believe.
Coming to an end, as all things must, Martin signed off, “Thank you for being our friends, you motherf---ers.”
