St. Vincent Delivers a Deep Ellum Homecoming for the Ages

It was not likely a question St. Vincent asks at every stop.

“Show of hands: Who here has gotten a little bit stoned around White Rock Lake?” she asked those gathered before her Sunday concert inside the once-and-future Bomb Factory.

The audience, filling the balcony and the floor nearly to capacity, cheered.

“... And thought, ‘You know what’s a great idea? Whataburger!’ And was it a good idea?”

The crowd eagerly roared its approval, which elicited an exaggeratedly sarcastic reply: “OK, sure.”

The singer-songwriter born Annie Clark was back home. The visceral sensation of a beloved artist returning to those who helped shape and champion her work was palpable from the moment she stepped on stage, shrouded in darkness as she sang the snarling, abrasive “Reckless,” from her latest album All Born Screaming.

Sunday marked the first time Clark had headlined a stage in her hometown in nearly four years, although that gap is misleading: She opened for Roxy Music at the American Airlines Center in 2022, and just before this past Christmas, dropped by her family’s restaurant in Lake Highlands, Resident Taqueria, for a 70-minute DJ set.
Fresh from picking up four Grammy Awards earlier this year for Screaming, including best alternative music album, Clark, backed by an airtight quartet of musicians — guitarist Jason Falkner, keyboardist Rachel Eckroth, drummer Mark Guiliana and bassist Robert Ellis — spent 90 minutes deftly knitting together the various threads of her career to date.

Veering from Screaming's passionate, polyglot moods to the grimy disco of Daddy’s Home to the frosty alt-rock of her earliest records, St. Vincent dispensed with much of the artifice she’s employed on stage, save for a few striking video backdrops and retina-searing light displays, instead delivering a relatively straightforward, thrillingly balls-out rock concert that rolled from peak to peak, with scarcely a moment to catch your breath.

The queasy angularity of “Marrow” gave way to a vicious Clark guitar solo, grappling with the neck of her guitar, tearing out notes as her hair fell across her face, falling into a duel with bassist Muhl at the song’s climax. Elsewhere, the arrogant strut of “Big Time Nothing” gave way to an extended, riotously lighted drum solo at the conclusion of “Cheerleader,” one of multiple moments where Clark generously ceded the spotlight to her collaborators. (Her good taste extended to the opening act, Australia's Glass Beams, which set the mood with a bewitching, undulating, deliciously psychedelic set.) Some of the ferocious momentum the musicians sustained from first note to last was undoubtedly due to the abundance of good feeling in the air — “We love you, Annie!” rang out again and again from all corners of the room Sunday — but also because she, and we, were gathered at a moment of extreme anguish.

“Who here remembers going to a place called CD World?” Clark asked those gathered, yielding another vociferous response. “Some of you are young, and that’s cute — going to a place, rolling up like I did tonight in your mom’s Hyundai minivan and going in to buy your first Nick Cave CD. You didn’t know it, but that CD would inform your entire life. The man who sold you that CD is a fucking legend we are all here to support — he has touched your life, whether you know it or not: the incredible Chris Penn!

“The family is in dire straits right now, but they are Texas strong. You being here tonight is a big support. … I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Chris Penn and his family.”

Such a public show of support for the grievously injured Penn was deeply moving, and further illustrated how genuinely Clark loves and champions her home. (Clark even namechecked Good Records in “Dilettante.”) In addition to her poignant on-stage tribute, Clark donated a signed guitar, which was raffled off to attendees who scanned a QR code upon entering the venue.

But it was during “New York,” near the evening’s end, when her performance tipped over from electrifying to unforgettable. Crouched near the foot of the stage, Clark intoned, “I know it’s Sunday — I know you could be a lot of places, but you’re here at the goddamn Bomb Factory with us, so let’s fucking go.”

She moved to the barrier beyond the lip of the stage, as hands reached up to brace her legs.

Then, Clark turned and fell back into the crowd, singing the entirety of “New York,” as she was born aloft by those beneath — St. Vincent’s hometown quite literally supporting her. “This is like a La-Z-Boy recliner meets a Thai massage — I’m very into this!” she crowed at one point.

It was a moment those in attendance, least of all Clark, will likely not forget. To watch her move confidently from the cozy confines of the Kessler Theater and Granada Theater into bigger, bolder spaces across North Texas — she’s arguably the lone rock star from these parts to have performed everywhere from the First Unitarian Church of Dallas to the Winspear Opera House to Dos Equis Pavilion — and never lose sight of her broader, defiantly original vision has been remarkable.

St. Vincent, the pride of Lake Highlands, holds us up, in every sense of that phrase. She exemplifies the value of harnessing ambition to artistic fearlessness. One of the finest artists to ever emerge from our midst? Of this, there is no question.