Due to its sometimes silly, over the top tendencies, recent hardcore and heavy music tends to fall by the wayside in the world of musical criticism. But even fans of this sect have trouble arguing that three-chord guitar punk or blast beats are notably musical in any way. A lot of the time, with the actual flaws in musicality comes an either childish, or ultra-violent lyrical message. It seems bands often use the extreme violence to make the sub-par music appear as if it is of a more serious nature: It’s acceptable to say that there are few heavy bands out there that actually play “music.” It’s also accepted that there are few bands that play poor music and retain a meaningful enough message to be taken seriously. But even fewer are bands that are able to do both.
That isn’t to say Gaza’s new record I Don’t Care Where I Go When I Diecan immediately be elevated to the legendary status of any Botch or Converge release – the album name alone is enough to leave a large part of Gaza’s fan base to scoff at (and the rest drooling) – it’s just that Gaza is on such a high plane of lyrical and musical existence that they should be taken very seriously. But really, if you would just imagine a group of five guys from Salt Lake City wanting to play the heaviest, orneriest, fucking scariest music out there, do you think they could give a damn?
Because this is some holy shit! Seriously, god damn it this! And that’s probably the point – this came out of Utah. Utah, the hub of all western-American religion, the great Zion of the Mormons, and I Don’t Care Where I Go When I Die is surely a backlash at religious oppression (among other things). This is immediately apparent in the highly contrasted black and white art: upon opening the disc, one is firstly confronted with a washed out image of an Orthodox priest with bleeding eyes. This goes side by side with images of cows with halos, rams and gazelles all shown in stark, two-toned print.
The lyrics throughout are heavily violent, full of savage, pagan imagery that draws archaic comparisons between animals, plagues, brutality and the band’s views on seedy business practices, popular music, vanity, and, of course, religion – the metaphorical content is high, and it is obvious what vocalist and lyricist John Parkin is serious about is not the violent message, but the meaning therein. And it works well with his ultra-gravelly, long-sustaining voice, most pervasive on the chaotic Moth, wherein his screams provide the overlay for urgent and forward moving guitar licks.
The guitar sound, although superbly clear, is not nearly as heavy as this band’s live show would demonstrate. On the plus side, the fret board masturbation going on here is phenomenal. Guitarists Luke Sorenson and Mike Mason produce sounds that often make one ask, “What the fuck?” Tracks such as Slutmaker and Cult contain ephemeral bursts of intense and atonal tapping patterns that leave the listener amazed and disoriented. Don’t misunderstand this – it is scary. To draw a comparison: if Minus the Bear is the Hemingway of tap guitar, taking us on a laid-back, drunken journey through whimsical relationships and late-night drives, Gaza surely is the Dante; each song becomes the next circle of hell, leaving no sinner out of the crosshairs of these axe-wielding maniacs. But Gaza doesn’t stop with blistering fret-board attacks; some of the more innovative guitar moments come in the drawn out, doom moments of the record, which are still abrasive in their sludge; comparisons could be drawn to the slowed down epic landscapes of Gaza contemporaries The Power And The Glory. But, whether blasting through a nightmarish arpeggio or letting the power of the brown note recede into the aural landscape (track 3, Hospital Fat Bags verily rattles the skull in its low-pitched abominations) what amazes most about these guitarists is their cohesion. These guys obviously know what they are doing, and they do it well, together, without ever compromising their sound. But even the lonely chords at the end of Sire somehow frighten in their simplicity.
On drums, Casey is so aware of rhythmic repetition that it has become a challenge to find something played twice. He doesn’t repeat fills ever. The record is so nuanced with ghost notes and meter changes that these beats amaze in the same way Refused did back on The Shape of Punk to Come. This rhythmic variety provides an overlay that is at sometimes confusing and over the top, and there are parts in the songs where the time signature is uncomfortable, but dealt with in such a superb way that it remains familiar –and all of a sudden it’s your fault the song feels uncomfortable. Most of the beats are fast and border on the grind-ee, but it’s all in the name of pulling the track together.
The fact is there isn’t another band out there playing such innovative and heavy music coupled with as strong a message. Gaza is progressive, and yet familiar enough to become a grind/doom/hardcore/whatever mainstay – look for these guys in the future.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Moving On: The Appleseed Cast Live
Before this Easter Sunday show got rolling, the band drank from red plastic cups in the parking lot. With van doors open and Metallica’s “Ride the Lightning” blasting into the warm evening, The Appleseed Cast cajoled each other into air-drumming and some serious head banging. After a little more than a decade together, the rockers seemed duly at ease, tossing baseballs to each other, practicing golf swings, and trading catcher’s mitts for cans of beer minutes before the show.
“[We formed] at the height of the whole Nirvana thing, just seeing guys throw their guitars around with a whole bunch of noise and not really playing, like… leads or hot solos, and that you could do that and still make songs [had an effect],” lead guitarist Aaron Pillar has said of the band’s influences. Pillar’s live guitar sound is combustible, building feedback up from delicate arpeggios, which explode into huge walls of sound. Even after ten years and seven albums with The Appleseed Cast, Pillar still seems comfortable with his duct-taped and scratched Fender guitar. As he tuned up, he waxed over the holiday with the crowd: “I always wanted the solid chocolate rabbit for Easter,” he said, “but I always got the hollow one. That was just the type of household I grew up in.” The Appleseed Cast has garnered a vastly niched following, and for many it is strange to think of a cult guitar hero eating chocolate rabbits as a child—imagine Jimi Hendrix chewing bubble gum and skipping rope.
Guitarist and vocalist Christopher Crisci has pared his vocal repertoire down substantially, reserving his atmospheric howl for the largest impacts of the songs. The Appleseed Cast are often pigeonholed in the continually narrowing field of Emo rock, and this lyrical cut-back seems to be a wise choice as the band matures; songs off 2003’s marginal “Two Conversations” are lyrically pedantic, taking sophomoric stances on relationships and sexual encounters. Still, this perceived datedness did not affect the grandeur of “Fight Song,” the “Two Conversations” powerhouse rocker. “Take your troubles solo, this is the end of you and me,” cried Crisci over the swirling guitars and pop-inclined drums, his prematurely-graying beard and wedding band suggesting a contradiction that did not deter the crowd from loving every moment of this song and the entire show.
“Fight Song” came near the end of an essentially instrumental set. Drummer Aaron Coker provided The Appleseed Cast’s signature melodious percussion, having joined the band a little over a year ago. Coker seemed irritated to play the older songs written by legendary Appleseed drummer Josh “Cobra” Baruth. Even the live, instrumental rarity “Sunset Drama King,” a piece that would be a proud and challenging spectacle for any percussionist to play, was met with Coker solemnly shaking his head; with the final crash of the song he struck the cymbals with a great force, apparently drawn from anger. And yet he is unmatched in technical and artistic mastery. Coker moves fluidly around his set with style and power.
But regardless of noticeable immaturity in candy metaphors, lyrical content, or temper tantrums, this new instrumental take The Appleseed Cast have on their music seems to bolster their position as an indie mainstay. Where the childishness shines through, one can also see an attempt at moving away from what is becoming a contrived genre: Aside from pandering to the crowds sentimentalities, Pillar also opted for tuning breaks awash in thunderous samples of diplomatic speeches. Crisci’s vocal standoffishness is working wonders for songs that are already so intricately layered that a vocal track often results in a confusing din. In fact, the last song played, identified by the set list only as “Song Two,” was an instrumental exploration in odd time signatures and booming breakdowns. “Song Two” retained a heavy sense of melody with an intricate rhythmic framework provided by Coker and bassist Marc Young. This piece is a preview of the next stage in Appleseed’s catalogue, an all-instrumental EP with Coker recording with the band for the first time. With a release date slated for later this year, this album will undoubtedly continue with the sprawling, epic momentum last year’s “Peregrine” prompted; the lack of vocals will expectantly highlight the aspect of The Appleseed Cast that has always shone as the most stunning, epic, lovable and mature—the music.
As the last notes of the set soared off into the Easter night, the house lights went to black. The rest of the band left the stage as Pillar removed his guitar and knelt at his pedals to mold his final pluckings into a swirling drone of atmospherics.
“[We formed] at the height of the whole Nirvana thing, just seeing guys throw their guitars around with a whole bunch of noise and not really playing, like… leads or hot solos, and that you could do that and still make songs [had an effect],” lead guitarist Aaron Pillar has said of the band’s influences. Pillar’s live guitar sound is combustible, building feedback up from delicate arpeggios, which explode into huge walls of sound. Even after ten years and seven albums with The Appleseed Cast, Pillar still seems comfortable with his duct-taped and scratched Fender guitar. As he tuned up, he waxed over the holiday with the crowd: “I always wanted the solid chocolate rabbit for Easter,” he said, “but I always got the hollow one. That was just the type of household I grew up in.” The Appleseed Cast has garnered a vastly niched following, and for many it is strange to think of a cult guitar hero eating chocolate rabbits as a child—imagine Jimi Hendrix chewing bubble gum and skipping rope.
Guitarist and vocalist Christopher Crisci has pared his vocal repertoire down substantially, reserving his atmospheric howl for the largest impacts of the songs. The Appleseed Cast are often pigeonholed in the continually narrowing field of Emo rock, and this lyrical cut-back seems to be a wise choice as the band matures; songs off 2003’s marginal “Two Conversations” are lyrically pedantic, taking sophomoric stances on relationships and sexual encounters. Still, this perceived datedness did not affect the grandeur of “Fight Song,” the “Two Conversations” powerhouse rocker. “Take your troubles solo, this is the end of you and me,” cried Crisci over the swirling guitars and pop-inclined drums, his prematurely-graying beard and wedding band suggesting a contradiction that did not deter the crowd from loving every moment of this song and the entire show.
“Fight Song” came near the end of an essentially instrumental set. Drummer Aaron Coker provided The Appleseed Cast’s signature melodious percussion, having joined the band a little over a year ago. Coker seemed irritated to play the older songs written by legendary Appleseed drummer Josh “Cobra” Baruth. Even the live, instrumental rarity “Sunset Drama King,” a piece that would be a proud and challenging spectacle for any percussionist to play, was met with Coker solemnly shaking his head; with the final crash of the song he struck the cymbals with a great force, apparently drawn from anger. And yet he is unmatched in technical and artistic mastery. Coker moves fluidly around his set with style and power.
But regardless of noticeable immaturity in candy metaphors, lyrical content, or temper tantrums, this new instrumental take The Appleseed Cast have on their music seems to bolster their position as an indie mainstay. Where the childishness shines through, one can also see an attempt at moving away from what is becoming a contrived genre: Aside from pandering to the crowds sentimentalities, Pillar also opted for tuning breaks awash in thunderous samples of diplomatic speeches. Crisci’s vocal standoffishness is working wonders for songs that are already so intricately layered that a vocal track often results in a confusing din. In fact, the last song played, identified by the set list only as “Song Two,” was an instrumental exploration in odd time signatures and booming breakdowns. “Song Two” retained a heavy sense of melody with an intricate rhythmic framework provided by Coker and bassist Marc Young. This piece is a preview of the next stage in Appleseed’s catalogue, an all-instrumental EP with Coker recording with the band for the first time. With a release date slated for later this year, this album will undoubtedly continue with the sprawling, epic momentum last year’s “Peregrine” prompted; the lack of vocals will expectantly highlight the aspect of The Appleseed Cast that has always shone as the most stunning, epic, lovable and mature—the music.
As the last notes of the set soared off into the Easter night, the house lights went to black. The rest of the band left the stage as Pillar removed his guitar and knelt at his pedals to mold his final pluckings into a swirling drone of atmospherics.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Local Buzz: Doctor Gonzo
I was asked to check them out, so I did. They led me into a small basement room where a giant chalk mushroom was scribbled on the wall beneath the words “DOCTOR GONZO!” I really didn’t expect a psychedelic experience beyond the realm of influences the band cites—Tera Melos, The Mars Volta, Radiohead, Pink Floyd, et al—but as soon as the band cut the overheads in favor of a bank of black lights, I felt something a little different was up. Suddenly, the chalkboard was illuminated with a huge, dripping mess of hidden, glow-in-the-dark paints. The room glowed purple and vibrant, and I was a little wary of what was to happen next; but I was surprised over and over as the band played through their 25 minute-plus set, which the three members craft into one long, gapless composition.
Firstly notable: this is fucking loud. Guitarist Dan Byington pretty much insisted that I wear earplugs, but I refused and watched as the band plugged in and turned all the way to 11. The set started with Byington cranking up a wall of blank noise from his guitar, absolutely shaking my body. I thought of Black Dice and Wolf Eyes, but as soon as I got that idea through my head, the band somehow simultaneously plunged into a disjointed, odd-metered odyssey with Byington’s fingers tapping, and a strong rhythmic pulse coming from bassist Alex “Twitch” Duplex (really) and drummer Jason Smith; a cluster-fuck of Minus the Bear, the Mars Volta, and the Chili Peppers. So I started bobbing my head, but once again was thrown off, as this was only a springboard to yet another alterable and vibrant slice of rock music.
This was to be the anti-formula to the entire set, so I gave up on pretense, and let the music move me instead of trying to move to the music. Throughout the remainder of our sonic adventure in that underground room, Doctor Gonzo jumped sporadically from heavy funk jams to surf-y guitar pop, from entirely improvised sections of noise and soloing to more of the odd-metered dissonance of the band’s prog influences. My mind went blank after awhile, trying to take it all in. Despite the psychedelic connotations and the band’s purportedly silly moniker—a tip of the hat to the late, great Hunter S. Thompson—the band was fairly tight through the entire frenetic romp.
It’s music for the ADD. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around just “one” song, because of the chopped-up and yet tied-together style the band has cobbled together. At this point, lacking a vocalist, I’m not sure how this band would sound on tape. The experience was made complete by the body-shaking low tones and head-piercing highs of the loops Byington kept going between songs—would this fare well in the recorded realm? I say who gives a shit. Come watch them live because that’s the way it’s meant to be.
Firstly notable: this is fucking loud. Guitarist Dan Byington pretty much insisted that I wear earplugs, but I refused and watched as the band plugged in and turned all the way to 11. The set started with Byington cranking up a wall of blank noise from his guitar, absolutely shaking my body. I thought of Black Dice and Wolf Eyes, but as soon as I got that idea through my head, the band somehow simultaneously plunged into a disjointed, odd-metered odyssey with Byington’s fingers tapping, and a strong rhythmic pulse coming from bassist Alex “Twitch” Duplex (really) and drummer Jason Smith; a cluster-fuck of Minus the Bear, the Mars Volta, and the Chili Peppers. So I started bobbing my head, but once again was thrown off, as this was only a springboard to yet another alterable and vibrant slice of rock music.
This was to be the anti-formula to the entire set, so I gave up on pretense, and let the music move me instead of trying to move to the music. Throughout the remainder of our sonic adventure in that underground room, Doctor Gonzo jumped sporadically from heavy funk jams to surf-y guitar pop, from entirely improvised sections of noise and soloing to more of the odd-metered dissonance of the band’s prog influences. My mind went blank after awhile, trying to take it all in. Despite the psychedelic connotations and the band’s purportedly silly moniker—a tip of the hat to the late, great Hunter S. Thompson—the band was fairly tight through the entire frenetic romp.
It’s music for the ADD. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around just “one” song, because of the chopped-up and yet tied-together style the band has cobbled together. At this point, lacking a vocalist, I’m not sure how this band would sound on tape. The experience was made complete by the body-shaking low tones and head-piercing highs of the loops Byington kept going between songs—would this fare well in the recorded realm? I say who gives a shit. Come watch them live because that’s the way it’s meant to be.
Spotlight: Kyle's Drunk Hats
In an egotistical fashion world dominated by big-headed giants like LRG and Ruca, it’s pretty astonishing that anyone can still fit hats on their fat heads. Everyone (thinking they’re the best) is vying for the next fresh design, and—more importantly—the biggest paycheck. Kyle’s Drunk Hats strives to step back from these aspects of the, as he calls it, “Street Fashion” world by: One, not letting much but his own life inspire him; Two, giving away a large portion of the hats he creates; and Three, not letting any of it go to his head.
Kyle Elliott, the overtly modest one-man force behind Kyle’s Drunk, calls the unique, hand-drawn head-toppers he creates, “just silly hats,” despite a favorable public reaction to his products. Who could complain? Each hat is designed either with the wearer-to-be in mind via specific requests, or with nothing but Kyle’s drunken revelry to source the designs on the who-knows-how-many stylish Drunk Hats bobbing around in Boise.
“I’m not quite sure how many I have made in all. A lot. As of right now I just sell them on my MySpace and KylesDrunk.com […] and by word of mouth.”
These methods seem to be working pretty well for Kyle, as is evidenced on his MySpace page, where he has “satisfied customers, not models,” wearing countless hats. It’s worth mentioning that a good portion of these “customers” are scantily-clad females, most with KylesDrunk.com written in marker somewhere on their bodies. We can only assume that these girls, young and beautiful, are all of the appropriate age to reveal bosoms or derrières.
“It kinda just came to me one day as the perfect ploy to one, see girls half nakey, and two help advertise,” Elliott jokes. “I mean a naked girl catches anyone’s eye. [After awhile] I'd come home to my inbox with some high school girl in her bikini, who I didn’t recognize, holding a sign explaining she loved my hats. So this whole Kyle's Drunk thing is now more used for me just to see girls naked with my name on them, not so much about the hats.”
Despite these naked girls, Kyle remains mildly self-deprecating regarding his prowess with the ladies. “Don’t let my MySpace fool you. I’m not cool, I’m goofy and I hardly ever get laid, let alone even talk to the hot chicks that model KylesDrunk.com.”
And the source of the company’s moniker? It’s blatantly simple. “I love to drink and party. Having been going bald for quite sometime I had a lot of extra hats and […] one night when I was drunk drew on one and wrote 'kyle's drunk.' on it. I got a lot of compliments and drew more and more.” The little phenomenon that is Kyle’s Drunk has mushroomed from there, with the original concept of doing all of his work while intoxicated having been foregone early on. “That was the idea when I first started but then I learned it wasn’t that good of an idea nor as fun as I had once planned.”
But that doesn’t stop the party. “I like cheap rum. It never effects the production of my hats because drinking comes first.” It’s pretty safe to say that every recipient of Kyle’s hats say “party on!” with no reservations.
Kyle Elliott, the overtly modest one-man force behind Kyle’s Drunk, calls the unique, hand-drawn head-toppers he creates, “just silly hats,” despite a favorable public reaction to his products. Who could complain? Each hat is designed either with the wearer-to-be in mind via specific requests, or with nothing but Kyle’s drunken revelry to source the designs on the who-knows-how-many stylish Drunk Hats bobbing around in Boise.
“I’m not quite sure how many I have made in all. A lot. As of right now I just sell them on my MySpace and KylesDrunk.com […] and by word of mouth.”
These methods seem to be working pretty well for Kyle, as is evidenced on his MySpace page, where he has “satisfied customers, not models,” wearing countless hats. It’s worth mentioning that a good portion of these “customers” are scantily-clad females, most with KylesDrunk.com written in marker somewhere on their bodies. We can only assume that these girls, young and beautiful, are all of the appropriate age to reveal bosoms or derrières.
“It kinda just came to me one day as the perfect ploy to one, see girls half nakey, and two help advertise,” Elliott jokes. “I mean a naked girl catches anyone’s eye. [After awhile] I'd come home to my inbox with some high school girl in her bikini, who I didn’t recognize, holding a sign explaining she loved my hats. So this whole Kyle's Drunk thing is now more used for me just to see girls naked with my name on them, not so much about the hats.”
Despite these naked girls, Kyle remains mildly self-deprecating regarding his prowess with the ladies. “Don’t let my MySpace fool you. I’m not cool, I’m goofy and I hardly ever get laid, let alone even talk to the hot chicks that model KylesDrunk.com.”
And the source of the company’s moniker? It’s blatantly simple. “I love to drink and party. Having been going bald for quite sometime I had a lot of extra hats and […] one night when I was drunk drew on one and wrote 'kyle's drunk.' on it. I got a lot of compliments and drew more and more.” The little phenomenon that is Kyle’s Drunk has mushroomed from there, with the original concept of doing all of his work while intoxicated having been foregone early on. “That was the idea when I first started but then I learned it wasn’t that good of an idea nor as fun as I had once planned.”
But that doesn’t stop the party. “I like cheap rum. It never effects the production of my hats because drinking comes first.” It’s pretty safe to say that every recipient of Kyle’s hats say “party on!” with no reservations.
Here Comes The Elephant – “6 Feet Below”
myspace.com/herecomestheelephant
“He doesn’t know the pain that we know,” the band croons early in the track, amid delicate piano runs and roughly strummed guitars. The low quality of the recording makes the already wistful song feel even more nostalgic, with the soft harmonica bursts and polyrhythmic tambourine riding smoothly under the multi-layered vocals. Because we want to label this, we could call it emo or indie, but it’s more than that; we could compare the insanely catchy hook “I’m riding on top again” to the scratchy choruses of early Modest Mouse, or the track’s interlocking solo-spree with choice Islands songs. But it stands on it’s own as a lo-fi folk wonder from a few guys who simply like what they’re doing. And really, what the hell else is there? Listen to this song and realize that sometimes strong song writing, a soft shaker in the background, dissonant vocal jaunts and a little rhyming spree can make your stomach turn knots.
“He doesn’t know the pain that we know,” the band croons early in the track, amid delicate piano runs and roughly strummed guitars. The low quality of the recording makes the already wistful song feel even more nostalgic, with the soft harmonica bursts and polyrhythmic tambourine riding smoothly under the multi-layered vocals. Because we want to label this, we could call it emo or indie, but it’s more than that; we could compare the insanely catchy hook “I’m riding on top again” to the scratchy choruses of early Modest Mouse, or the track’s interlocking solo-spree with choice Islands songs. But it stands on it’s own as a lo-fi folk wonder from a few guys who simply like what they’re doing. And really, what the hell else is there? Listen to this song and realize that sometimes strong song writing, a soft shaker in the background, dissonant vocal jaunts and a little rhyming spree can make your stomach turn knots.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Freak-Folk Neo-Tribal Sex-Pot Mash-Up: Animal Collective Live
5-22-07, In The Venue, Salt Lake City, Utah
I was in the Barnes & Noble near the venue taking a shit, when, from another stall, I heard a voice speaking in an unfamiliar language. Ever inquisitive, I peeked under my stall as I sat on the toilet, seeing a pair of bulky green shoes and tapered white slacks across the tile floor. I finished my business in a hurry and left the restroom to get a glimpse at whoever was speaking strangely. As I pretended to peruse the young adult section (an adequate vantage point to see the door of the restroom) I only hoped that it was Panda Bear (Noah Lennox of Animal Collective who has recently moved to Portugal and released a critically acclaimed solo album) so that I could proclaim that, "I shit with Panda Bear." Not long after I had read the synopsis of a book about fashionable dragons with drug addictions who deal with issues of abortion and race, Lennox did indeed emerge from the filthy white-tile sanctuary of the Barnes and Noble restroom. I watched him, shaggy hair and baggy navy pullover, pass by the cafe and leave through the front doors of the bookstore, still speaking on his phone. I hurried to find Eric; I found him thumbing through a thick book of art criticism. "I shit with Panda Bear," I grinned.
It’s something strange and lurid to be proud of, but Animal Collective’s music is an experimental romp through vast and textured soundscapes, raw and animalistic; my excitement over defecating in a bookstore simultaneously with one of the members—all of whom adopt strange monikers, Avey Tare, Geologist, Deakin, and Panda Bear—is sort of representative of the double-edged sword of Animal Collective’s music, artful and base. With their ghostly harmonies, romantic lyric abstraction, and intense drum beating, Animal Collective is often called Psych or Freak-Folk and Neo-Tribal (despite insistence from band members that this is inaccurate), and the cult following the band has garnered is a tribe of sorts. The Animal Collective is not just the name of the band, but an umbrella under which all the members of the cult-tribe can identify with. It’s not that much of a surprise that Eric and I are driving 700 miles in one night just to see this performance.
Soon enough, there we are in the club. Anyway, I'm deluded and everyone looks familiar, but not enough to talk to somebody, just enough for me to feel comfortable saying that all these people, with their calculated clothes and affected airs, exist in every other city under different terms. Not to say that they move from place to place, it’s just that in this mashed-up indie scene, under this type of music there is an easily recognizable collection of stereotypes that are Xeroxed from city to city: There, at the front of the stage is the incredibly self-conscience girl with paper-white skin and bleached dread-locks, her teeth in an ever-taut grimace, her eyes flitting towards everyone's faces so that when somebody looks at her she knows it. In the center of the room is the tall and lanky boy with curly hair, dressed much better than everyone else, an excellent dancer, white loafers under his vulture-like frame, well traveled with a thousand rock-and-roll stories (I'm eavesdropping from the stage where I sit). Standing too close to me is the awkward music guru in his yellowing-white t-shirt from his graduating year of high school, his timid voice and mousy hair parted precisely, his skin pale from never leaving his mother's home. Clustered to the left is an entire rat-pack of kids all in tapered jeans and white v-neck t-shirts so new you can still see the folds from where they were packaged. Leaning coyly on a booth to the side with one leg crossed over the other is the most handsome boy in the world (apparently there are more than one), his horizontally-striped chromatic t-shirt drooping low on his chest, Italian boots laced up tight, hair trimmed expertly, moustache calculated about his smooth, white teeth smiling perfectly at all the girls. Two very young ladies stand next to me concocting white lies to tell their mothers in order to get "extremely wasted" after the show (it is a Tuesday), and then comparing make out stories.
I know all these people back in Boise, in Portland, in Seattle, San Francisco and New York, and I see myself across the room, trying to look coolly comfortable, taking notes with my eyes, jaw locked tight with apprehension, my cap perched askew on my head, not sure what to do with my arms as Eric and I sit on the stage and wait, watching more familiar people pour into the club. And there we all are, gathered in this sticky, sweaty room, only sort of sensational, waiting for the show to start.
Soon, classical Spanish guitarist Richard Bishop takes the stage. He is a comparatively older man—a bard of sorts. "I like your smoking laws," he says through his long, gray beard as he sits down with a nylon-stringed acoustic guitar onto a short, wooden stool, "and your smoke isn't so bad either." This declaration might be subversive drug innuendo as Bishop’s eyes are crackled with red veins. I look around and see a few people smoking cigarettes timidly inside the club, a privilege that is disintegrating even from bars in other states. Bishop doesn't smoke cigarettes on stage, but his hands smoke as they fly over his guitar in obvious technical mastery. Opening with the burning "Malaguena," Bishop has some hypnotizing chops. Rising and falling, dipping and soaring, his sanguine guitar work sets an odd tone for what's to come. Regardless, the crowd hoots after long phrases of back-and-forth fiery plucking and heavy strumming, but shows no response to Bishop’s only tribute of the evening: “This is for all the Lennon, McCarthy, ‘Over the Rainbow’ fans out there,” he said somewhat reflexively before laying down a flawless solo-guitar version of the song. The reference seemed to be lost on the overtly young crowd, less-than-pulsed by Bishop’s musical head-nod. But the crowd absolutely ate up every other moment of finger-flying guitar romance. Bishop cordially left the stage, tingeing the air electric for the madness of Animal Collective.
As the band took the stage, I noticed Deakin (Josh Gibb) was conspicuously absent from the stage show. It is said he was coping with “Personal issues,” and therefore not available for this tour. Animal Collective has a surprisingly small collection of instruments considering the scope of the amazing and lauded “Sung Tongs” and “Feels” albums, both littered with an assortment of guitars, percussion, layered vocals, kitschy accessories and samples. In addition to the three vocal mics on stage, the band has only digital sampling machines, an array of mixing boards and one each of a booming floor tom, a deep conga, a trashy china cymbal and a set of high-hats—electronics and drums, calculated digital artistry and acoustic, body-raking percussion. Whatever instrumentation is lost in the live show rendition of studio albums is completely unapparent, as the three on-stage members pulled off everything fantastically; although one would expect this set to be mostly from their recent “People” EP, as well as material from their forthcoming full length, “Strawberry Jam,” this entire set was written for this tour, with the absence of Deakin in mind. It was a slow start for the band, as most of the introductory songs were unfamiliar to the crowd, who danced and swayed and bobbed perfunctorily. But the crowd’s imperfect reaction does not detract from the estranged musicality in these newer songs. Avey Tare and Panda Bear’s harmonies are succinct, lucid and interweaving. The syncopated beats pulse on with Panda Bear freaking on the floor tom and cymbals, Avey Tare whacking the conga in ways that seem potentially damaging to the instrument, Geologist looping who knows what other-worldly sounds into every last crevice of the room. The Collective never wasted a second, blurring the edges of songs into each other, improvising whole intermediary phrases. Throughout all of it, all three members on stage mixed the vocals and samples into an envelope of prickly electronics and swirling effects.
Near the end of the set, Animal Collective moved into more familiar material and the crowd went mad. The last push of the band began with the only song of the evening off of “Feels,” the mellowing “Loch Raven.” The subdued and sanguine nature of the song completely misled the now-giddy and exuberant crowd before one of the most insane displays of live music I have ever seen, a trio of songs from “Sung Tongs.”
To put it simply: it was fucking insane. As soon as Avey began the buttery up and down melodic hook of “Leaf House,” the air in the room shifted dramatically. Apparently fueled by the excitement of hearing something very familiar and danceable, the crowd ripped themselves out of their fuzzy musical envelope, took stock of the night, and disregarded everything. All that material precognition seemed to simply fall away as Animal Collective pounded on. I looked over and there was Paper-White Skin Girl hunched over with her forehead nearly touching the floor as she bobbed violently up and down, her dread locks flailing. Tall White Loafers Guy popped and locked with style, and his lack of context was non-existent; as was White-Toothed Handsome Boy’s, who I saw suddenly grasp the Young White Lies Girls—dancing with erotic fervor on each other—to deliver both one sloppy kiss. The Awkward Music Guru’s body vibrated against me uncontrollably. The rest of the crowd shook with spasmodic glee as The Collective moved from “Leaf House” to “Who Could Win a Rabbit?” and into the night’s closer, “We Tigers.” By the time this song ended, it took a moment for me to realize that the loops had stopped some time ago, the frenetic cymbal and drum whacking the only noise besides the cacophony of shouts form the crowd and band: “TIGERS! TIGERS! TIGERS! TIGERS TIGERS! TIGERS!” the crowd still shouted as the band left the stage. As the last vapors of the live performance drifted off, every rabid fan of Animal Collective present (read: every person present) stayed put to chant and clap and yell for an encore. For upwards of eight minutes, the entire audience hooted for the band to retake the stage, an event that never saw to fruition; everyone hung out until the house lights came up, the band disappeared, and the last effects of the evening floated off into the cold May night.
And there all of us are back in our stereophonic envelopes, trying desperately to be cool because we assume that it matters, that it means something to be unified at least with our heads bobbing in rhythm, our hands clapping together, our bodies swaying in time. Whatever this is to academics writing in books like the art-crit one Eric was reading at Barnes and Noble is just another phase that will be stapled to some classifying name (like the Freak-Folk Neo-Tribal Sex-Pot Mash-Up), recognized as that, and left alone.
But it’s different for us here. Eric and I begin the long, night drive north to Boise. Anything said seems profoundly inarticulate after such a raw display.
I was in the Barnes & Noble near the venue taking a shit, when, from another stall, I heard a voice speaking in an unfamiliar language. Ever inquisitive, I peeked under my stall as I sat on the toilet, seeing a pair of bulky green shoes and tapered white slacks across the tile floor. I finished my business in a hurry and left the restroom to get a glimpse at whoever was speaking strangely. As I pretended to peruse the young adult section (an adequate vantage point to see the door of the restroom) I only hoped that it was Panda Bear (Noah Lennox of Animal Collective who has recently moved to Portugal and released a critically acclaimed solo album) so that I could proclaim that, "I shit with Panda Bear." Not long after I had read the synopsis of a book about fashionable dragons with drug addictions who deal with issues of abortion and race, Lennox did indeed emerge from the filthy white-tile sanctuary of the Barnes and Noble restroom. I watched him, shaggy hair and baggy navy pullover, pass by the cafe and leave through the front doors of the bookstore, still speaking on his phone. I hurried to find Eric; I found him thumbing through a thick book of art criticism. "I shit with Panda Bear," I grinned.
It’s something strange and lurid to be proud of, but Animal Collective’s music is an experimental romp through vast and textured soundscapes, raw and animalistic; my excitement over defecating in a bookstore simultaneously with one of the members—all of whom adopt strange monikers, Avey Tare, Geologist, Deakin, and Panda Bear—is sort of representative of the double-edged sword of Animal Collective’s music, artful and base. With their ghostly harmonies, romantic lyric abstraction, and intense drum beating, Animal Collective is often called Psych or Freak-Folk and Neo-Tribal (despite insistence from band members that this is inaccurate), and the cult following the band has garnered is a tribe of sorts. The Animal Collective is not just the name of the band, but an umbrella under which all the members of the cult-tribe can identify with. It’s not that much of a surprise that Eric and I are driving 700 miles in one night just to see this performance.
Soon enough, there we are in the club. Anyway, I'm deluded and everyone looks familiar, but not enough to talk to somebody, just enough for me to feel comfortable saying that all these people, with their calculated clothes and affected airs, exist in every other city under different terms. Not to say that they move from place to place, it’s just that in this mashed-up indie scene, under this type of music there is an easily recognizable collection of stereotypes that are Xeroxed from city to city: There, at the front of the stage is the incredibly self-conscience girl with paper-white skin and bleached dread-locks, her teeth in an ever-taut grimace, her eyes flitting towards everyone's faces so that when somebody looks at her she knows it. In the center of the room is the tall and lanky boy with curly hair, dressed much better than everyone else, an excellent dancer, white loafers under his vulture-like frame, well traveled with a thousand rock-and-roll stories (I'm eavesdropping from the stage where I sit). Standing too close to me is the awkward music guru in his yellowing-white t-shirt from his graduating year of high school, his timid voice and mousy hair parted precisely, his skin pale from never leaving his mother's home. Clustered to the left is an entire rat-pack of kids all in tapered jeans and white v-neck t-shirts so new you can still see the folds from where they were packaged. Leaning coyly on a booth to the side with one leg crossed over the other is the most handsome boy in the world (apparently there are more than one), his horizontally-striped chromatic t-shirt drooping low on his chest, Italian boots laced up tight, hair trimmed expertly, moustache calculated about his smooth, white teeth smiling perfectly at all the girls. Two very young ladies stand next to me concocting white lies to tell their mothers in order to get "extremely wasted" after the show (it is a Tuesday), and then comparing make out stories.
I know all these people back in Boise, in Portland, in Seattle, San Francisco and New York, and I see myself across the room, trying to look coolly comfortable, taking notes with my eyes, jaw locked tight with apprehension, my cap perched askew on my head, not sure what to do with my arms as Eric and I sit on the stage and wait, watching more familiar people pour into the club. And there we all are, gathered in this sticky, sweaty room, only sort of sensational, waiting for the show to start.
Soon, classical Spanish guitarist Richard Bishop takes the stage. He is a comparatively older man—a bard of sorts. "I like your smoking laws," he says through his long, gray beard as he sits down with a nylon-stringed acoustic guitar onto a short, wooden stool, "and your smoke isn't so bad either." This declaration might be subversive drug innuendo as Bishop’s eyes are crackled with red veins. I look around and see a few people smoking cigarettes timidly inside the club, a privilege that is disintegrating even from bars in other states. Bishop doesn't smoke cigarettes on stage, but his hands smoke as they fly over his guitar in obvious technical mastery. Opening with the burning "Malaguena," Bishop has some hypnotizing chops. Rising and falling, dipping and soaring, his sanguine guitar work sets an odd tone for what's to come. Regardless, the crowd hoots after long phrases of back-and-forth fiery plucking and heavy strumming, but shows no response to Bishop’s only tribute of the evening: “This is for all the Lennon, McCarthy, ‘Over the Rainbow’ fans out there,” he said somewhat reflexively before laying down a flawless solo-guitar version of the song. The reference seemed to be lost on the overtly young crowd, less-than-pulsed by Bishop’s musical head-nod. But the crowd absolutely ate up every other moment of finger-flying guitar romance. Bishop cordially left the stage, tingeing the air electric for the madness of Animal Collective.
As the band took the stage, I noticed Deakin (Josh Gibb) was conspicuously absent from the stage show. It is said he was coping with “Personal issues,” and therefore not available for this tour. Animal Collective has a surprisingly small collection of instruments considering the scope of the amazing and lauded “Sung Tongs” and “Feels” albums, both littered with an assortment of guitars, percussion, layered vocals, kitschy accessories and samples. In addition to the three vocal mics on stage, the band has only digital sampling machines, an array of mixing boards and one each of a booming floor tom, a deep conga, a trashy china cymbal and a set of high-hats—electronics and drums, calculated digital artistry and acoustic, body-raking percussion. Whatever instrumentation is lost in the live show rendition of studio albums is completely unapparent, as the three on-stage members pulled off everything fantastically; although one would expect this set to be mostly from their recent “People” EP, as well as material from their forthcoming full length, “Strawberry Jam,” this entire set was written for this tour, with the absence of Deakin in mind. It was a slow start for the band, as most of the introductory songs were unfamiliar to the crowd, who danced and swayed and bobbed perfunctorily. But the crowd’s imperfect reaction does not detract from the estranged musicality in these newer songs. Avey Tare and Panda Bear’s harmonies are succinct, lucid and interweaving. The syncopated beats pulse on with Panda Bear freaking on the floor tom and cymbals, Avey Tare whacking the conga in ways that seem potentially damaging to the instrument, Geologist looping who knows what other-worldly sounds into every last crevice of the room. The Collective never wasted a second, blurring the edges of songs into each other, improvising whole intermediary phrases. Throughout all of it, all three members on stage mixed the vocals and samples into an envelope of prickly electronics and swirling effects.
Near the end of the set, Animal Collective moved into more familiar material and the crowd went mad. The last push of the band began with the only song of the evening off of “Feels,” the mellowing “Loch Raven.” The subdued and sanguine nature of the song completely misled the now-giddy and exuberant crowd before one of the most insane displays of live music I have ever seen, a trio of songs from “Sung Tongs.”
To put it simply: it was fucking insane. As soon as Avey began the buttery up and down melodic hook of “Leaf House,” the air in the room shifted dramatically. Apparently fueled by the excitement of hearing something very familiar and danceable, the crowd ripped themselves out of their fuzzy musical envelope, took stock of the night, and disregarded everything. All that material precognition seemed to simply fall away as Animal Collective pounded on. I looked over and there was Paper-White Skin Girl hunched over with her forehead nearly touching the floor as she bobbed violently up and down, her dread locks flailing. Tall White Loafers Guy popped and locked with style, and his lack of context was non-existent; as was White-Toothed Handsome Boy’s, who I saw suddenly grasp the Young White Lies Girls—dancing with erotic fervor on each other—to deliver both one sloppy kiss. The Awkward Music Guru’s body vibrated against me uncontrollably. The rest of the crowd shook with spasmodic glee as The Collective moved from “Leaf House” to “Who Could Win a Rabbit?” and into the night’s closer, “We Tigers.” By the time this song ended, it took a moment for me to realize that the loops had stopped some time ago, the frenetic cymbal and drum whacking the only noise besides the cacophony of shouts form the crowd and band: “TIGERS! TIGERS! TIGERS! TIGERS TIGERS! TIGERS!” the crowd still shouted as the band left the stage. As the last vapors of the live performance drifted off, every rabid fan of Animal Collective present (read: every person present) stayed put to chant and clap and yell for an encore. For upwards of eight minutes, the entire audience hooted for the band to retake the stage, an event that never saw to fruition; everyone hung out until the house lights came up, the band disappeared, and the last effects of the evening floated off into the cold May night.
And there all of us are back in our stereophonic envelopes, trying desperately to be cool because we assume that it matters, that it means something to be unified at least with our heads bobbing in rhythm, our hands clapping together, our bodies swaying in time. Whatever this is to academics writing in books like the art-crit one Eric was reading at Barnes and Noble is just another phase that will be stapled to some classifying name (like the Freak-Folk Neo-Tribal Sex-Pot Mash-Up), recognized as that, and left alone.
But it’s different for us here. Eric and I begin the long, night drive north to Boise. Anything said seems profoundly inarticulate after such a raw display.
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