live in Hollywood

The young, in the know crowd (70 people is probably more of an intimate gathering, than a crowd per se) at the tiny Alterknit Lounge in Hollywood, California was expectant, though quietly so. Reverential might be the best way to describe the feeling in the room. Live David Bowie played over the PA, and then John Frusciante, superstar guitarist with the Red Hot Chili Peppers, shyly appeared at the side of the tiny stage. After flashing a brief smile and waving at the audience, Frusciante knelt down on the worn grey carpet, not too far from Josh Klinghoffer – formerly of well-regarded cult band, Bicycle Thief – and concentrated on the synth rack before him.
Frusciante only performed two songs. The first was a 20-minute electronic jam that was a longer and more involved version of ‘-00Ghost27’ from his fourth solo album, Shadows Collide With People. Klinghoffer also sat on the stage, hunched over his keyboard, as if he wanted to disappear into the music, while Frusciante worked, with keen detail, at the complicated machinery. The ensuing results of his orchestrated mechanics alternated between “noise”: screechy feedback that provided a harsh assault to the ears, to midrange sounds that were, in turns, mournful, almost liturgical, and hauntingly beautiful, to a deep, low grumble befitting an earthly tremor.
The final song was a beautiful eight-minute instrumental ballad. Frusciante, still on his knees, eyes closed, played his Fender Strat, while his body faced Klinghoffer, who played an old Gibson guitar. The song was sad, bluesy, and tragically romantic; a lullaby somehow gone terribly wrong. At one point, Frusciante lay on the floor, while camera flashes went off from various directions.
Frusciante is clearly one of those musicians whose first language is actually music, rather than words, so there’s a unique fluency in the way that he plays the guitar. It’s also quite clear that, at a certain point, Frusciante is submerged by the sounds in his own head, and when that occurs, the audience and all external expectations disappear; he is just an artist at play.