PopMatters: Humble Pie – Performance

My review of the new Humble Pie box set, Performance – Rockin’ at the Fillmore: The Complete Recordings is up at PopMatters.

When they left the studio for the stage, Humble Pie became something different altogether. Freed of the strictures of three minute long radio-friendly material, the four musicians came into their own. No longer was it Frampton extracting pop melodies from Marriott’s heavy R&B sensibilities, or Marriott dragging Frampton into a blues framework on a track-by-track basis. As this recording shows, their live partnership wasn’t a capitulation of one’s style to serve the other’s needs. It was two artists constantly pulling away from each other, with the tension of their inherently different approaches held in equilibrium by the rhythm section of Ridley and Shirley. Jerry Shirley’s ability to both pound heavily when playing blues and to sit off the beat for a jazzier feel allowed him to buttress whichever guitarist had stepped to the fore. Greg Ridley’s bass playing was limber yet solid like Shirley’s drums, and alternated that support role with the drummer like one instrument. Their fluid approaches to rhythm let Frampton and Marriott follow where their muses took them without sacrifices from either frontman.

Last Rites: Moon Coven – Amanita Kingdom

I reviewed the upcoming Moon Coven debut for Last Rites:

There are two things Moon Coven have from the opening notes of “Ruler of Dust” that many bands can’t ever seem to find: an earworm of a riff and a properly awesome guitar tone. The riff is a simple one, a drunken ellipse of a figure, with a slight stagger like a hiccup that immediately catches your attention. Then there’s that tone: rich, thick and resonant from bottom to top, no pass filters, no frills. It’s a tone that fills any room, from clapboard walls to cement halls. With that riff and tone locked and loaded, Moon Coven fire off toward the orb they worship. The song clocks it at just over seven minutes, but it could go another five or ten with that riff to carry the load.

PopMatters: Qat, Coffee & Qambus

Various Artists: Qat, Coffee & Qambus – Raw 45s from Yemen

There’s currently an egregious typo that I missed in editing which should be fixed soon, but otherwise I’m pretty happy with how this review turned out. The hardest thing I’ve yet to cover; the temptation to rehash the excellent liner notes was great, and as a so far unique compilation there is little literature or other work to draw on when discussing these recordings. I hope I did enough to intrigue and entice the reader into searching it out by describing the music as I hear it.

Halfway Gone

Though the official mid-year celebrations are a short ways off, here at C&P I’m jumping the gun so I can actually enjoy listening to all this crap I’ve got sitting around. Without further blathering, thoughts on some of this years releases:

Tori Amos – American Doll Posse
I still like the first few Tori albums, and love From The Choirgirl Hotel. Her latest has some great stuff, but has a good chunk of godawful crud that sounds like everything else she’s done this decade. Give it a listen, and buy the good stuff from iTunes (“Big Wheel”, “Body And Soul”).

The Assemble Head In Sunburst Sound – Ekranoplan
From Teepee records, home of my beloved Witch (RIP) and Earthless, Assemble Head are described by their PR flacks as “Mudhoney in Haight-Ashbury”. Though not as good as that, their heavy psychedelic blues-rock is good, and has just enough layers of noise and fuzz to compliment the groove.

Battles – Mirrored
I’ve been listening to this for a while and the shine has kind of worn off. Though I would say overall I am leaning positive, it doesn’t excite and interest me as much as the first few listens when I was unsure of what to make of it. Grooving post-rock with manipulated vocals, I’m sure I’d like them live more than on record. I do like it more than the two EPs, which I was very “meh” about.

Bjork – Volta
I liked it better in the short, condensed version she released as Selmasongs seven years ago.

Clutch – From Beale Street To Oblivion
Has not fell out of my rotation since it’s release in March. Further shedding their metal roots, Clutch comes across here as heavy, heavy southern blues – think ZZ Top on steroids. Muscular but not forceful, tuneful and fiery, I will be very surprised if this isn’t near the top of my year-end list. “Electric Worry” is one of my favorite songs this year; watch the video here.

Earthless – Rhythms From A Cosmic Sky
I’ve only had this a week, but it makes a helluva first impression. Just big honking stoner grooves – two go for twenty minutes each, then they throw a Groundhogs cover in to wrap things up. I think I might not like it quite as much as their prior release, Sonic Prayer, but if you like wordless jams that combine Hendrix, Blue Cheer and Sabbath with nods to power metal you can’t go wrong with either one.

Eluvium – Copa
I know nothing about this guy or anything else he’s done, but this is beautiful, subdued instrumental music. It almost falls into new age twinkledom, but holds the line and comes out like a soundtrack to Jim Jarmusch movie where nothing exactly happens but you enjoy the whole experience. I enjoy listening to this, but I don’t think it is a warm weather album so it’ll probably have to be “rediscovered” this Fall.

Tim Fite – Over The Counterculture
Free album? Of course I’ll listen! There are some great songs on this (“I’ve Been Shot” is a standout) and it only costs time. Won’t probably be there come end of year, but it was worth a couple of spins for a few standout tracks.

Jesu – Conqueror & Sun Down/Sun Rise
Continuing the steady shift from noise purveyor to the most depressing shoegazer imaginable, Justin Broadrick mope-a-dopes his way through blissful sounding sheets and waves of guitar. Even poppier than last year’s Silver, Jesu’s latest is wonderful to listen to, but has failed to lodge even the smallest riff or bit in my head. I can’t recall anything beyond a general sound and that I enjoy hearing it, but it may be too samey to make a distinct impression. Sun Down/Sun Rise is a bonus EP that was included with the Japanese release of Conqueror, and consists of two cuts, the first 17 and the second 15 minutes. Both songs are the equal to any of the shorter pieces included on the domestic album, particularly when played loud; you can really hear the songs build and develop when they envelope you.

Low – Drums And Guns
I freely admit I know nothing about this band, beyond a track here and there over their ten-plus year career. With Ian regularly singing their praises (and writing about them very well at Too Many Words x2), I decided to give this a listen when I got the chance. Without any history or context within which to place it, Drums And Guns is a somewhat off-putting and difficult listen. Their sound isn’t harsh or dissonant, but the decision to hard pan the voices and forgo a traditional aural mix is a challenge from the start. I think it works, though it does teeter on novelty after a while. I don’t like it as much as Ian, but I like it enough to want to hear more Low.

Mammatus – The Coast Explodes
I’ve got nothing to add to this review right now.

Minsk – The Ritual Fires Of Abandonment
Though I was disappointed with them live, the album is still pretty solid. Post-rock, drone, doom and Kahlil Gibran in an epic mash. Not most people’s cuppa, but I keep playing it.

The National – Boxer
I mentioned it in passing before, but this is a very good indie-pop record. I would shorthand it by saying it sounds like the meeting point of Lambchop and the Psychedelic Furs.

Elvis Perkins – Ash Wednesday
Though there are a few misfires on this (“May Day” is like the worst round of Kumbaya ever), his debut lives up to the tracks that have been floating around for a few years. I have a weakness for singer/songwriter stuff, and Perkins has a just enough of a touch of Mangum and Buckley to be right up my alley and to cause others to run in terror.

Tinariwen – Aman Iman
Anything that combines North African/Arabic style drones with delta blues guitar and what may be 40 different singers makes me prick up my ears. Tinariwen do that and add hand percussion and a bass guitar playing kick drum lines. I haven’t even bothered to read the translated lyrics; when it sounds this good I don’t care whether their singing about love, war, or pedophilia.

Amy Winehouse – Back To Black
Completely unoriginal, with an on- and offstage persona that is deplorable at best, Winehouse and company (particularly the oft-maligned Mark Ronson) have crafted an album that is just fun. I like early sixties soul, so throw some more modern beat patterns and a trashy but competent singer on top and I’m good. Won’t replace Carla Thomas or The Ronettes, and if it gets people to listen to them instead of Winehouse that’s good too.

Their are a bunch of things I haven’t heard, or haven’t heard enough. On the radar: Devin The Dude, Bonde De Role, R. Kelly (“I’m A Flirt (remix)” is so good I’ll try the rest), Crippled Black Phoenix, The Moonbabies. I gladly take recommendations.

Monday Musings

I’m not exactly a fan of Nine Inch Nails (I like the first album and songs here and there), but I am a massive fan of Bauhaus and Peter Murphy’s solo output. It is really no surprise then that I enjoyed hearing the radio sessions Trent & Peter recorded when on tour together last year. The four sets from four Eastern US cities range from covers of each other’s material to covers of songs they both love (like a passel of Joy Division, a Pere Ubu track and Iggy’s “Niteclubbing”). Lots of fun, nothing too revolutionary or revelatory, beyond the fact they sound like they’re having fun. Though one thing dawned on me; Peter Murphy is turning into Neil Diamond, just wearing black instead of bangles. They have about the same vocal range and tone, have a penchant for really silly dramatic arm motions, and are both pretending they’re not bald or balding. Diamond is a good fifteen years older, but they both rocked roughly the same do at fifty (of course, Neil has rocked the same ‘do since about the fifties, so I’m not posting his pic).

Peter Murphy, fully emoting, with comb-forward and burns:

The Crashing Waves Of Proggy Metal

Hailing from Corralitos in the mountainous terrain of inland Santa Cruz county, Mammatus describe their sound as “the final war between amps and sea creatures”. Judging by their latest album, The Coast Explodes, the sea creatures that inspire them aren’t placid sponges or phytoplankton-gorging krill. These Californians mean the older, larger, stranger ocean-dwellers, the mythical beasts that surface on the Lenox Globe beneath a banner reading “Hic Sunt Dracones”.

The Coast Explodes picks up directly from where their self-titled debut left off, with the third part of the epic “Dragon Of The Deep” (the word epic is not used lightly as the three pieces collectively top the 42-minute mark). Though a thematic continuation, the sound has changed slightly. “Dragon Of The Deep, Part Two” closed the first album with bristling, heavy, acid-soaked psychedelic doom. “Part Three” opens with the same high-pitched guitar feedback that closed “Part Two”, but 20-odd seconds in a quick, very mid-seventies progressive rock figure is introduced, rapidly followed by a second quick figure of over-driven guitar which would not sound out of place on an Iron Maiden album. Mammatus, in one short year, has expanded their sound from circa-1972 to circa-1976; the space-rock has met prog and is touching at the beginnings of NWOBHM. This inspired amalgam lasts for the first six-minutes before giving way to the retro-psychedelia of the heavily reverbed vocals (Mammatus’ singer, Zachary Patton, has a relatively high-pitched voice with a bit of softness to it, reminiscent at times of Perry Farrell without the whine). The pace slows, and the call to arms – “Take up your sword/Raise up your shield” – comes across as a softer version of the ceremonial chants at the heart of Sleep’s Dopesmoker, only with a message akin to Shakespeare’s Henry V before the battle of Agincourt.

The lyrical thrust of the album keeps with that martial (but hopeful) theme; rise with the sun’s/Son’s light to clear away the darkness. This duality is explicit in the lyrics to “Pierce The Darkness”, but does not veer into preachiness. It is the view that nature and divinity are entwined; they come across not as dogmatic but more an awakening to the majesty of creation and the strength and salvation that may be drawn from it. To reinforce that point, the sound of the album is reflective of nature, with long, soaring passages evoking flight and the swirling winds, repetitive washes of feedback coupled with cymbals and toms to mirror the waves crashing on the shore.

This evocation of nature does lead to the one glaring misstep on The Coast Explodes; actual sea lion barks and squelches make an appearance on “The Changing Wind”. This song, which serves as a break between the longer, heavier tracks leading into and out of it, pales in comparison to “The Outer Rim”, a Pink Floyd homage that served the same purpose on the debut. Easily described (and dismissed) as “Man Man goes freak folk”, complete with a weeble-wobble-wooble-weeble-weeble-wooble chant over sub-Vetiver acoustic noodling. Plus sea lions.

Luckily Mammatus redeem themselves with the album closing title track. The song is built around a guitar riff that sounds somewhat like Tony Iommi playing around with Led Zeppelin’s “The Crunge” at half his usual attack. The loping gait over the steady drums is instantly intriguing, and builds nicely to a strong, full sound before cutting back to allow a slow spoken word interlude that again brings to mind Perry Farrell and Jane’s Addiction, in particular “Summertime Rolls”. The casual Iommi guitar returns, and Mammatus alternate passages and styles again. This song shows most clearly the strides they’ve made since their first album; where the longer tracks there were heavy, thick waves of feedback and haphazard grooves, “The Coast Explodes” is a 12-minute track where there is a practiced precision to each step, a surety and strength that is crafted instead of jammed. While furious riffing and “riding the groove” may make for a powerful stage performance (and a fun – if flawed – first effort), the refinement of ideas on The Coast Explodes indicate Mammatus is more than just a band to see, but to hear. Just lose the sea lions.

Quick Hits

Things bringing joy to Mudville since Casey has struck out:

1. Super Furry Animals
Q: How have I completely missed the recorded output of these Welshmen? A: The Manic Street Preacher’s The Holy Bible turned me off 90s rock from Wales entirely, it being overhyped, generic post-grunge guitar rock that made me long for Bush and Candlebox. Listening to Songbook Vol. 1 makes me think pop music could have been so much more interesting if SFA were huge in the place of other UK bands – namely Oasis, Blur & Radiohead. Though all of these band did some great stuff, “The Man Don’t Give A Fuck” is just masterful.

2. The National
I thought their last album(Alligator) was boring, generic, and entirely wasteful of my time and attention. Their upcoming release Boxer is none of those things. Though my first impression was a little “meh”, further listening has really opened it up for me. It is an understated grower, mellow but not sleepy, orchestral without being twee or precious.

3. Q-Tip
How many unreleased albums can one legend accumulate before his label puts something out? I’ve mentioned Kamaal The Abstract before; now I have a copy of Open which was supposed to be out in 2005. He was even giving interviews and making the press rounds before it was shelved. Not as experimental or as steeped in the 70s as Kamaal, it is instead a melding of the neo-soul sound that peaked around the centuries turn and classic hip-hop beats. Reportedly, Q-Tip is reworking some of this material for his yet untitled 2007 release. Expect it to be shelved once recording is completed.

4. The Rub
Brooklynradio.net hosts The Rub radio broadcasts as downloads. DJ Ayres, DJ Eleven and Cosmo Baker have been doing shows entitled “The History of Hip-Hop”, and thus far have done eleven volumes covering 1979-1989, with one show dedicated to each year. Great way to either remember the songs of your youth or get a lesson in the roots (or a little of both, as has been the case for me).

5. Frank Zappa
I’m a Zappa fan but not a fanatic, and I greet each new release from the vaults with a bit of skepticism. The latest “new” Zappa release, Buffalo (a show from the 1980 band, wherein the band rock the crap out of upstate New York), shows Frank and co. at their most powerful and technically adept. Whether tearing through an incredibly fast version of “Keep It Greasy” that highlights Arthur Barrow’s bass-playing ability (imagine the speed of the solo from Rancid’s “Maxwell Murder” as the backbone of an entire track) or nearing a metal version of Steely Dan with Steve Vai’s guitar work on “City Of Tiny Lites”, this latest bit of Barko-Swill is a keeper.

Cold Chillin’

I was out running errands, listening to disc 3 of VU’s The Quine Tapes and found myself in a mall parking lot replaying “I’m Waiting For The Man”. Again. And again. I had to have sat there, listening, for over half an hour. The entire experience was strange; I had listened to both the song and the album numerous times, but it was as if I had never heard it before. The version recorded on November 27, 1969 changed my perception of how the song could be interpreted.

Let me make the assumption that there is at least passing familiarity with the version of the track from The Velvet Underground & Nico. Aggressive accompaniment (Reed & Morrison’s staccato fretwork, Cale’s atonal Jerry Lee Lewis percussive piano), with jittery, anxious vocals by Reed in a first-person tale of an addict. This, in my listening experience, was also the model for the live performances, both before and after Cale’s departure (see 1969: Live and disc 1 of The Quine Tapes, where the song’s structure is essentially the same, though the band wanders a bit and lack some of the propulsion Cale’s piano led to the proceedings).

Now to jump back to the recording from 11/27/69. From the start there is a difference. Where the early recordings had immediate motion, even if by 1969 they were somewhat unfocused, this is shambolic. There is no jitter, shudder or motion. The rhythm is lethargic, as if the band was laying down instead of laying it down. The drop in tempo turns the the lead guitar from pointillist dots and sharp punctuation to swirly, hazy ellipses (I hope people are used to my groan-inducing turns of phrase by now). Reed changes his vocal style from the crisp nervous diction, staccato shake and focused craving to one of relaxed ambivalence. He’s adding verses – seemingly on the fly – riffing off of the circular motifs of the guitar to remember:

Ever since I was a little boy
Had the strangest dream
Everything that I saw
Didn’t seem to be what it seemed

The whole performance is dreamlike. Milky. There is a floating feeling throughout; just the tiniest tether of Moe Tucker’s solid beat, a pulse that makes it all real.

As the song drifts past the nine-minute mark, the singer finally scores:

Go on up to a Brownstone, up three flights of stairs
Everybody’s pinned you, but nobody cares (oh no)
He’s got the works, gives you sweet taste
Then he’s gotta split because he’s got no time to waste
I’m waiting for my man

This is a significant change; the original lyric is “Then you gotta split because you got no time to waste” (You can hear Doug Yule, Cale’s replacement, is singing these original lines in the background). The change is indicative of the entire take – where once was a tale of craving, of needing the fix, feeling the fire ripping at the guts, desperately trying to keep it together just long enough – the need now switches to the seller, who has other mouths to fill, so to speak. There is now a reason for this wistful, strolling take on the song; the singer is already fixed, just picking up more before the hunger ever hits. By tweaking these few words there is a sea change of meaning (the several added verses are mainly color, though their mere addition is further indication of the lack of urgency on the part of the singer), and the last verse changes tone from “leave me alone, the future doesn’t matter” to “Hey, I’ve got it under control, we’re good for now”:

Hey baby don’t you holler – darling, don’t you bawl and shout
You know that I’m feeling good, gonna work it on out
I’m feeling good, feeling so fine
Until tomorrow, but that’s just some other time
I’m waiting for my man

“I’m Waiting For The Man” – The Velvet Underground, as performed 11/27/69

[Note: This is a piece that has gone through many incarnations. It was the first thing I wrote last spring when I was thinking of blogging again (in fact, it is on the web in the original incarnation, if people want to try to find it), and was revisited as a “test run” for a podcast idea last fall. I was unhappy with both attempts as they stood, so decided in the wake of the Guitar amps post to revisit and revise. It isn’t quite there yet, but I think it is stronger than before. Makes me wish I had an editor, or had ever taken a comp or journalism class.]

What’s the Amplitude, Lou?

A while back, when raving and drooling over the David Bowie & Stevie Ray Vaughan rehearsal bootleg, I mentioned a Velvet Underground bootleg entitled The Legendary Guitar Amp Tapes. Recorded at a club called The Boston Tea Party (in Boston, natch) on March 15, 1969, the Velvet Underground run through a set of songs from their first three albums, with a couple of oddities thrown in. I’m sure if you were there, the show was comparable to other sets from that year, captured on the official albums 1969: Live and Bootleg Series, Vol. 1: The Quine Tapes, as well as numerous boots. However, in Boston that early Spring we find either the most incompetent or ingenious taper of the day; instead of setting up his gear to get the sound of the P.A., we get a recording made from in front of Lou Reed’s guitar amp.

So how does it sound? Pretty much how you would guess from the title. On the quieter tracks like “I’m Set Free” and “Jesus”, the mix is just a little off, with vocals quite discernible if distant; both Sterling’s guitar and Moe Tucker’s full kit are relatively audible; Doug Yule on keys or bass comes across a bit muddled (in my experience, most bootlegs from this era lack any sort of clarity on the low end). Lou is crisp and loud on these tracks, but not overwhelming. On anything that has even a hint of rumble and drive, from mid-tempo tracks like “Beginning To See The Light” to more up-tempo songs like “What Goes On” and “Sister Ray”, Lou’s guitar sound is almost all you hear. Tucker’s snare and tom come through just alright, often barely enough for the listener to keep the tempo in mind, while the vocals might as well be in another room and the rest of the band almost ceases to exist. “Sister Ray” has enough space here and there for the keyboard to come through with the expected vamping familiar from other live versions, but is regularly dunked deep below the surface of the oceans of squeals and feedback Lou is marshaling.

A good example of this “so in-your-face from the get-go as to be unbelievable” sound is the opener, “I Can’t Stand It”. It is joined in progress, though pretty close to the beginning. Lou is playing the riff cleanly, bending a note here or there for emphasis; Moe Tucker can be heard above, cymbals crashing, snare and tom just laying the barest groove, steady and simple; far, far, away you can hear Lou singing, and if you know the song you can follow along, filling the gaps where he drops below audibility, “If you just come back it’ll be alright”. It’s moving along as you expect, and that groove is there, almost undeniable. But at 1:50, Lou let’s go and everything drops out besides a quiet thump, an occasional snare snap. Wailing single notes bend and scream, to be replaced by jagged chords, to be supplanted again by bent notes and peels of noise. It isn’t beautiful; there is no hint of Hendrix-style lyricism, or the fluid explorations of Clapton in Cream; it is a growl, an attack that goes on for the next 2:40 before a sharp ending, as Lou prepares for the next verse and chorus, and Sterling Morrison can be heard playing the main guitar figure across the stage. One verse, one chorus, then 30 seconds of vamp-into-noise to bring the song to it’s end. Over half the song is blaring guitar, growling, vamping, moaning, howling, stark. Other songs touch this burning ember, but none reach the same incandescent glow.

In a lot of ways this recording is a novelty. There are good recordings of this same band just a few months later, where the mix is more even and the interplay and variation that made them such a reputable live act is readily apparent. Yet, I keep listening to this weird document, as often or more than the official recordings mentioned above or the highly recommended Live at End Cole Avenue bootleg (the full Dallas show that some of the 1969: Live recordings are pulled from, in better quality than the official release). There is something exciting about this album, such a harsh, bright spotlight on Reed’s soloing, so in your face and astounding. It isn’t the Velvet Underground as a band but Lou Reed, Noise Impresario.

It is such a singular thing that it has a webpage dedicated to it, complete with audio samples. Praise Ye The Lord, indeed.

The Majesty of Rock

Now that power is restored, no large trees are threatening to fall on my house and nearby dams are no longer near the breaking point, I’m able to share my most metal evening.

Saturday night I headed up the road to Portland to catch a show by Relapse labelmates Minsk and Rwake (Which I now know is pronounced “Wake”. The well-known silent “R” rears its Rhead). For this one night they were joined by local metal mavens Conifer and Ocean, who bookended the show.

I was excited to hear Conifer as this was originally scheduled to be a release party for their first record in a couple of years. Unfortunately, they had no new product to unveil and were not forthcoming on the reason beyond a cryptic comment about mastering I got from the drummer after the show. The short set (they played about 20 minutes) was comprised of new material, which, to my ears, seemed to have more “swing”. A weird statement when it comes to describing instrumental heavy post-rock, but the rhythm section came closer to a stoner groove than say, Pelican. It was definitely a good development and I look forward to hearing how this translates onto disc. As I said, the set was short, and felt like it was cut off as they were building momentum. Luckily, I should be able to catch them again soon as they’ve been playing around lately working the new material into shape.

Minsk followed after a quick equipment shuffle (with three band’s amps piled on stage, Conifer’s drummer actually played on the floor in front, facing his bandmates). I was hoping for a great performance as I’ve really grown to love their latest album, The Ritual Fires Of Abandonment. They did not disappoint as musicians; a very tight and powerful rhythm section where the bass really drove the propulsive elements, allowing the drummer the freedom to add lots of color and counterpoint, coupled with a guitarist whose tone varied from soft, almost classical sounds to full down-tuned sludge of ear-hurting intensity (I wisely wore earplugs). Sadly, the vocalist was not on the same level as the rest of the band. He was adding washes of noise and fuzz with a keyboard which limited his role as a front man, leaving the band without a visual focal point. This made their 15-minute dirges a little tough to swallow; the crowd had to just wait for the song to build and build till the eventual release, and there was little to capture them in the meantime. This would all be excusable if it was perfectly done (I’ve seen a band enrapture an audience by sheer precision and force of execution), but beyond his stationary stylings, the singer had issues. Several times he seemed to almost lose his place and then take too long singing the verses, and at one point the band had to audibly slow down to get back in sync. I don’t want to speculate as to what might have been the cause, but it did detract from what was, musically, a very skillful and powerful performance. The set was again short; four bands made the night more a showcase than a typical concert. Minsk may have been better served by a different set list, as closer “White Wings” (a straight forward stoner-doom burner) had the crowd moving and the singer was on point.

Rwake took the stage next and my expectations were kind of low. I haven’t warmed to their recent album Voices of Omens; I find the vocals way too forward (and guttural x2) for my taste. The music sounds great though, and I hoped live the balance would be more to my liking. I am glad to say it was all I could want and much, much more. I knew nothing about the band, so when a Peter Jackson lookalike (he wore a LOTR shirt to make it even more apparent) and a slight women with ass-length dreads came to the front and just ROARED I was surprised. When a dual guitar wave of brutal doom crested high overhead I just smiled and felt my filings rattle. They reclaimed the crowd from the near apathy of Minsk’s set and got feet moving and head’s banging. I have a soft spot for drummers who sing along though there is no mic in sight; it shows total commitment to the band. Their drummer was right there, flailing and wailing, even mouthing the samples the female singer was triggering to start the songs. Visually, they were perfectly balanced; stage right, the heavy-set male singer and the twin hirsute stick figures of the rhythm guitarist and bass player; center was the drummer; stage left, the small female singer and the lead guitarist, who looked like Kyle Gass impersonating Rick Neilsen. Rwake was both tight and loose, playing as one core but unafraid to let things shake about. The crowd was singing along to songs from all three of their albums, and the band was definitely feeding and feeling this devoted audience. At least three times the lead singer talked about how this was there first visit to Maine, how great Portland was, that they would be scheduling a stop here on their next tour this summer, and how much they loved us all. Of course, I talked to him after his set and he started the conversation by saying, “Thanks. I’m so fucked up now, man. You ever Robo?” and then looked past me into space. It is probably safe to assume a good portion of his stage banter was empty platitudes, but it worked to keep the crowd in the palm of his hand.

After a sweaty, pounding 40 minute set, the gear was switched again and local stalwarts Ocean took the stage. For those of you unfamiliar with Ocean, they are a reduction – a distillation, if you will – of doom to some sort of primal essence. Stoner sludge, like that of Rwake, has energy and motion, even at its slowest. Ocean is like the sludge that has settled to the floor of it’s namesake and is just moments away from lithification; you may think there is motion, but you have not the ability to detect it. On record they are dark and heavy, a down-tuned note in place of a chord, another sounded just a beat past when the listener expects it, the slowest of slow builds to reach a dying pulse and then dropping back toward zero, all over a 20+ minute time frame. I realize, mere moments into their set, that the album doesn’t do them justice. Partly it is because I don’t have a soundsystem that can put out the necessary volume; they are so loud, so bass heavy, that my jeans ripple against my legs with every note. The sound is moving such a volume of air as to cause my bones to hum and after a few minutes I feel that I am vibrating in resonance with their music; I am hearing an internal harmonic they are not playing. It isn’t painful (I’ve been at shows where the bass is so heavy I’ve felt nauseous and seen people throw up), but strangely uplifting. I’ve never felt as part of a show, if that makes sense. As in sync as the other three bands were (overall this was one of the most professional shows I’ve seen), Ocean’s oneness was unique. It is very hard to play so slow and controlled, to keep adrenaline at bay; their sound is also so spartan as to highlight even the slightest variation in speed or attack. The four men moved and played in near perfect alignment, and though their sound was dark (and I assume their few lyrics were as well, but another case of guttural-itis made them completely unintelligible to these ears) the crowd was elated. The deep bending head-banging of both band and audience was something to behold, as they reared back and rocked onto their heels, only to plunge down to waist level with each cascading strum (sadly, my head-banging days are long gone, a victim of neck and back injuries a decade ago). Ocean played only one song, and nearly stole the show with it.

It was my first metal show in roughly fifteen years. It won’t be fifteen until the next.