The Great American Music Hall, steeped in San Francisco’s history since its opening in 1907, is a venue that seems to absorb the spirit of every artist who graces its stage. Once a bordello and later a jazz hotspot, its gilded balconies and chandeliers whisper stories of the countless musical legends who’ve played there. Last Monday night, the Hall once again became a sacred ground for music, hosting Alan Sparhawk in a performance that felt both monumental and deeply intimate.
Opening the evening was Circuit des Yeux, an artist whose presence seemed otherworldly. Wrapped in a thick haze, she delivered an operatic and ethereal set that stunned the room. It was a rare delight to discover an opener of such mature artistry. The crowd itself was a fascinating tableau: a blend of 40- and 50-something local indie rock devotees that felt familiar, comfortably slouched in threadbare Aislers Set and Palace T-shirts, mingling with a younger crowd of 20-somethings from DIY and anarcho-punk circles.
Sparhawk’s sparse online presence in recent years, coupled with his focus on two sprawling musical compositions and a handful of collaborations, has only heightened the mystique surrounding him. The weight of his history—both personal and musical—hovered over the room, especially for fans of Low, the groundbreaking slowcore band he co-founded with his late wife, Mimi Parker. Her passing from cancer several years ago cast a shadow over the music world, her voice forever entwined with Sparhawk’s in a perfect, almost synthetic synchronization.
When Sparhawk took the stage, sinewy and radiating energy, the room shifted into something electric. He opened the set with a heavily vocodered vocal layered over a grime-inflected rave beat, a stark departure that shot his voice into infinity. His movements were frenetic, almost unhinged—bouncing, flailing, completely engrossed. The energy was contagious as he moved through songs from his current record, veering from the plaintive “Can You Hear?” to the chaotic, techno-grunge hybrid of “Brother.”
Sparhawk’s son took up bass duties with an understated confidence, while the drummer—filling Mimi’s irreplaceable role—played with precision and reverence. He seamlessly upheld the rhythmic backbone and, at times, hit Mimi’s vocal range when backing Alan for the softer part of the second half of the set. At one point, Sparhawk unveiled an unfinished piece, its haunting beauty making one wonder if it was among the last he and Mimi had worked on together. The emotional weight of the moment was undeniable.
The set reached its climax with a governing hallowed rendition of a Retribution Gospel Choir track, the refrain ringing out: “When Jesus comes back, all you motherfuckers are gonna pay.” It felt Dylanesque in its apocalyptic forewarning, a time-sensitive sermon on the same day as a new presidential inauguration. Midway through the set, Sparhawk paid tribute to David Lynch—who had passed away just days before—by reading a quote from Catching the Big Fish, his book on transcendental meditation. It was a poignant nod to another artist whose work often explored the liminal spaces of beauty and despair.
As the house lights rose, the audience lingered, reluctant to leave the cocoon of such a transformative evening.
