Live | Yves Tumor, Vancouver

It’s 10:26 on a Saturday night. I’m sitting in the basement of Celebrities awaiting the arrival Yves Tumor.

A lukewarm beer nestled in hand keeps me company. Bass reverberates through my back, as I lean uncomfortably against the wall.

Old pillars, exposed brick, and a stage lit ominously in red. A few people mingling and gathering at the front. Some half-heartedly attempting conversation with friends whilst others nod their heads rhythmically, in time with the beat.

Feet are tapping , but more fingers are padding at screens, awaiting something that will alleviate that gnawing feeling of awkward loneliness. It’s not normal to just wait. You must be doing something, anything to reassure the world you’re not simply there to pass time. Patiently I’m sitting here. Drinking a beer I don’t want and typing notes on my phone, looking like I have something to do.

The sound quality is pretty good — well set up and established. It’s still quiet for people, the warm-up act’s music filling the empty space where a crowd should be.

Lighting in dark spaces helps provide character to the surroundings. Pink hues seep in from the ceiling, casting deep shadows across the brick fascia, accentuating the mysterious gaps in the walls.

What’s through that large black hole up there?

The gaudy green Monster branding pierces out from the bar. It looks out of place in an otherwise natural feeling environment. It feels like a mainstream club wrapped in NY Boiler Room pretence. Here’s to Yves.

His music is atypical and at points challenging. The eternal party trick of pulling the rug from under your expectant eardrums was in full force on his latest release. An album filled with intricacies and little personal flourishes — delicacy mixed with pure unbridled anguish. Frustration encapsulated in sound.

Moving to the front now, they’re slowly packing in around me. A man in white is the physical embodiment of the 90s rave. Arms flailing, legs rotating, and head swaying. It’s infectious. A wave of rhythmic movement ripples through the air. More and more people begin feeding up off this bespectacled acid house hero. The DJ seemingly picks up on this — she looks up for the first time with a wry smile across her face. This is good.

Wait. Is that a fucking wizard? Long hair, beard, and a cape burst into the scene. Energy exploding outwards, arms everywhere, and a cautious circle perimeter appears. But it’s time to calm and collect his ethereal thoughts. The headliner isn’t on for another hour.

Volume up. Beat rippling across the hard concrete. This is pure acid house now. FatBoy Slim, Brighton beach, eyes closed, head arched back, hands reaching upward. Ecstasy. We move into industrial Berlin. Heavy beat crashing through the air, hanging in hazy smoke.

12:27 and the set finishes. That black hole in the wall is a viewing deck for backstage, familiar faces reappear over the edge. Lights illuminate the floor below, in a futile quest for discarded anything. Final sound check. People stifling yawns yet ready for what’s to come.

It’s close and intimate. A small walkway extends from the main stage. Tangible and real. People pushing forward, condensed around the empty mic stand.

We shuffle forward. The lights dim. He walks on stage. So, how does an artist with a history behind the decks in electronic music production fare in the limelight?

Pink wig, yellow plastic jacket, sunglasses on, and an intoxicating swagger. Launching with two of his best known tracks, the audience are already on side. Noid is a surprisingly effective opening track to the set list. It feels good, and his presence on stage propels each note forward. Swelling beats pull us in, clearly relished by the sole character on stage.

Safe In The Hands Of Love was such a remarkable shift in not only tone but quality, that the (admittedly slim) discography of Yves Tumor pales in comparison.

Yves Tumor rattles through his set. So much reverb on the mic you can barely decipher any crowd patter. After demanding we increase the volume to eardrum-worrying levels, the rest of the set is plagued by a classic case of a microphone unable to contend. There’s a real sense he’s channeling Prince with movement and vocal tricks, especially with some of the less produced and bombastic sounds.

Just as you feel we’re getting to grips with this inimitable style he walks off stage, still singing.

As some of sort great crescendo we expect a triumphant return on stage to crack out his best known tracks.

But he’s already played them. He’s new, 2 albums in (3 if you count his original self-produced) and not much in-between. Whilst his latest direction is clearly the most successful, there’s the opportunity to mix his background in production between the headline tracks. Something to help catch a breath and allow each new track to sink in a little.

There’s something inarguably exciting about Yves Tumor. I don’t know where to place him. It’s new and different and I was left wanting more. Instead we get a 40 minute set and our hero walks off backstage. Back into the black hole through the exposed brick wall.