Boredoms, Human
Bell @ Neumo’s
It’s hard to put Friday night’s Boredoms show into words. Their show
defies description, destroys language.
Let’s start with Human Bell, who are at least a little more
comprehensible than Boredoms. Human Bell are David Heumann of
Arbouretum and Nathan Bell of Lungfish, a Dischord band that I never
got into but that everyone seems to hold in high regard. The band name
is, among other things, a play on their last names. On Friday night,
they performed as a trio—drums, guitar, double-necked guitar,
sometimes trumpet. They played on the floor of Neumo’s, lights turned
down dark, roped off from the crowd like an exhibit at a museum. Their songs were alternately deftly fingerpicked southern gothic blues
and evil, slow-riffing drones carried by hard pounding drums. Before
the last song, which featured some squealing blasts of trumpet, one of
the guys did a funny little jig. It was a good set.
But then it was time for Boredoms. The set began with
ringleader Eye (who limped onto the stage, having broken his foot at
their show in L.A.) holding two orbs of light, one in each hand,
swinging them in slow arcs, holding them aloft, chanting and screaming,
while the rest of the band sat ready, triangulating him between their
three drum kits. It was dark except for those orbs, but every once in a
while a digital camera’s LCD screen lit up—photography was not
allowed at the show—and a beam of light would shine down from
above the stage, security spotlighting the offender.
When the band kicked in, it was a rush—three drummers locked
in frenetic synch, starting and stopping, leaving large gaps that were
filled with either Eye or the crowd (or both) screaming. In the back of
the stage, behind the three drum kits and Eye’s huddle of electronics,
was a seven-necked guitar, one tall, totemic body with necks sticking
out on alternating sides. Eye hit the frets of the seven-headed beast
with drumsticks, each neck seemingly tuned to a different chord,
drumming out percussive progressions (a fifth person onstage seemed
mostly to attend to this instrument, tuning the various guitars
throughout the show). The guitars’ sound came as washed-out, diffused,
intangible tones and echoes, accompanied by Eye’s echoing shouts. It
sounded like the band was perched on the edge of a cliff,
overlooking a turbulent ocean, shouting into the wind and abyss,
elemental and precarious.
Next to me in the crowd, a guy was holding his cell phone open for
someone to hear the show. I can’t imagine they were getting the whole
experience on the other end of the line.
Then Eye crouched at a bank of effects and pedals, chanting into a
mic and twisting the sounds into foreign shapes, while Yoshimi P-We
played synthesizer, and Senju and Yojiro kept the drums rolling. Their
sound kept running up to the edge then pulling back, swelling,
cresting, and breaking like waves. After maybe 20 minutes of this,
they paused, to massive cheers.
They launched back in with more echoing guitar bursts over
propulsive drumming, the three drummers hitting the tight changes
practically telepathically. Certain sounds or strains of guitar sounded
familiar, but it was hard to recognize distinct songs—was that
the riff from “7777” or “(two circles)”? Up front, a few guys slammed
into each other while a giant flange washed over the crowd. During a
lull, Eye howled one sustained note, and the crowd intoned along with
him, resonating the whole room.
There were laser bursts. There was primordial pre-psych. My
notes became increasingly illegible. Eye said, “Thank you, Seattle.”
They returned for an encore, drums slipping in and out of one last
groove before the crowd emptied out, ritual performed, and returned
into the world.
Word from Boredoms, via the intrepid Trent Moorman, is that this
summer will see a sequel to last July’s 77-drummer spectacle BOADRUM;
this one will take place on 8/8/08 and feature, yes, 88
drummers. I’m usually not one for numerology, but 8/8/80 is my
birthday (8:08 a.m.), and I plan to be there.
Photosynthesis, the Blankket @ The Dept.
of Safety
Finally, an open letter to anyone about to start a “band” that
consists of you singing over tracks on your iPod: Please, please,
please stop. It was fun, but that time is over. MP3 players aren’t
dazzling anymore. It’s no longer a shock—if it ever was—to
see a lone figure onstage fiddling with a flywheel. At the very least,
write five or six songs before you decide to take your half-baked act
onstage.
Case in point: Saturday night at Anacortes’s Dept. of Safety,
waiting for Mount Eerie to play, not one but two iPod
acts—Photosynthesis and the
Blankket—prolonged the wait with indie-rock karaoke of
varying prowess. In the end, I only caught a couple Mount Eerie songs
before having to catch a ferry.
Photosynthesis was cute but forgettable, flitting from overdriven
electro nerd-rap to insubstantial synth pop to the delight of the young
all-ages crowd and a few scattered parents. The Blankket, the musical
project of the DoS’s current artist in residence, Steve Kado, was at
least memorable. The DoS’s Kevin Erickson told me Kado is “a fearless
performer,” and I would have to agree. He’s certainly not afraid of
losing an audience. Kado writhed on the floor to increasingly loud
sine-wave loops; he removed layers of clothing and wrapped his scarf
over his face; he caused terrible piercing feedback; he sang “Dancing
in the Dark” by Bruce Springsteen and danced through the (mostly
seated) audience, his dancing style part Calvin Johnson, part
Panther; he sang a song about us living long lives at the expense
of others. But mostly, he said hilarious things between songs. He
talked about the country’s looming recession, pointing out that he was
objective as an “outsider” from Toronto; he praised the iPod, pointing
out how rare and special he was for owning one, thanking China; he
answered an alarm on his cell phone, telling the crowd that the banana
bread he was baking in the oven upstairs was ready, joking that his
resident art project was to burn down the DoS with banana bread, thus
committing some “twee homicide bullshit.” As a comedy routine, it’s
pure gold, but it’s not the most mind-blowing musical act.
Counterpoint: The Blow played that night to a sold-out Triple
Door. 