The Secret Machines w/Hint Hint, Crystal Skulls
Thurs June 17, Chop Suey, 8:30 pm doors, $10 adv.
"The first time you take acid, or have any kind of a psychedelic experience, from that point on you look at the world a little differently." Brandon Curtis squints his eyes a little as he says this, like a scientist subtly underscoring the tenets of his lesson. The Secret Machines, for whom young Brandon sings and plays bass and keyboards, defiantly play post-acid rock--flavored with sorbet-light touches of Flaming Lips frazzle, a never-ending motorik groove they liberated from the Germanic likes of Neu!, and the heaviest kick-drum detonations since John Bonham's gargantuan kit finally fell silent. But this isn't just about the drugs.
"Meditation is a part of it too," he continues. "We're all into self-examination, the processes of the brain. Drugs separate you from your usual point of view, offering a different perspective. It's not necessarily advisable," he grins. "But anything could throw you into that state. Like hearing a groove for 10 minutes--that alters my state every time, with or without chemicals."
"You can't underestimate the mystical impact of the things you don't understand," adds his younger brother, guitarist Benjamin. "Whether it's hearing great music, or a drone that lasts for ages, or having a 9-hour acid trip, or driving for 15 hours straight, no breaks."
At the moment, the Secret Machines are exploring the lysergic possibilities of being a low-budget traveling rock 'n' roll band, seeing the world (most recently England) from a splitter-van window and sampling the world's wonders with peripatetic glee ("We're a tad more inquisitive than your traditional Southern boy," says Brandon. "We don't sit in our hotel rooms playing PlayStation. We'll go walk about in Hyde Park or sample stuff like Yorkshire pudding, or Stilton and Wensleydale cheese, or find the best place to eat fish 'n' chips. We're not trying to look like deep, cultural, intellectual guys, but it's so much more fun to explore a park than sit in your hotel room.").
Traveling is second nature for them, anyway. Brandon and Benjamin hail from Norman, Oklahoma, and later moved to Dallas; charismatic, hirsute drummer Josh Garza moved to Norman a year after the Curtis boys quit town, later hooking up with them in Dallas. Friends for years before the band, he says they've all gotten to the point in their relationships where they're "no longer polite; Benjamin and Brandon being brothers, they were already there, but now I feel like their cousin or something, a family vibe--we don't spare anyone's feelings!"
When the lineup of the Secret Machines truly gelled, they upped sticks and moved to New York City, as if to signal their commitment to the band. "We could've done this anywhere," says Benjamin. "We just wanted to go somewhere different. New York, the East Coast, toward Europe, holds more attraction for us than, say, the West Coast."
They released a debut EP, September 000, in 2002, showcasing frazzled morsels of Lipsian psychedelia that showed a promise their new album, Now Here Is Nowhere, pays dividends upon. Drawing upon the grooves and Krautrock leanings of their live shows, there are a number of metallic, mantric noiseouts ("First Wave Intact," "Nowhere Again," and its reprise, "Now Here Is Nowhere") amongst the blissed-out ballads ("Pharaoh's Daughter") and anthemic rockers ("Sad & Lonely"). Given that their stark, white-light-drenched concerts are fast becoming the stuff of legend, that's definitely a good thing.
"Not to sound all pompous, but we're not from the 'comedian' school of rock performance, you know?" says Brandon. "If an orchestra gets up onstage, they just play their instruments and present the music as dynamically as they can; we don't tell jokes or scratch our asses or do shots between songs, we don't talk to the audience. We try to avoid anything that jars you out of the moment, because, on a good night, it can be an escape."
And that's how they get the audience to share the altered states they treasure?
"Well, there's something to be said for zipping in and zipping out, for melody and complex composition," he offers. "But there's also value in resting in one meter, in repetition. I can't say it works for everybody, but it works for me."
Garza adds that using that standard for performing can bewilder audiences out of clapping because they're not sure when a song is finished. "We're thinking of getting an 'applause' sign," says Garza. "But we don't mind; we expect people to be as confused as we are."
