Deafheaven Live at the Granada

The Skinny UK

As I've written on the blog before, metal (largely black metal) isn't my bag. In many ways it’s my own version of reggae or country; two genres people commonly dismiss as sounding "samey." It's not a problem with black metal being typically violent music, Death Grips are one of my favorite bands, but how it’s constructed. To undiscerning metal ears, which mine unquestionably are, one ear-piercing howl or heart palpitating blastbeat is indistinguishable from another. Words are largely unrecognizable and to someone who places a premium on lyrics, that’s incredibly frustrating. So instead of pushing through to the other side of the suffocating music, I turn off because there's nothing for me to cling to.

All of that said, San Francisco black metal/post-rock/shoegaze experimenters Deafheaven's set to a small, but intimate crowd at Lawrence's Granada Theater was a revelation. I was drawn entirely to the show by their 2013 record Sunbather, which was one of my 10 favorite albums of last year and sat at number one on aggregating site Metacritic's 2013 list. It's a sublime album, sui generis in construction but eerily familiar. Meandering, Modest Mouse like guitar lines will explode into power soloing. Pianos dawdle for a spell then disappear into a fog of galloping bass and flailing percussion. George Clarke's distanced, often heartbreaking envy of those with money is delivered in a banshee wail. Sunbather doesn't so much rewrite the rules of what black metal can be, it throws the book into a shredder then sets the scraps on fire.

And fortunately for me and those fervent metal heads in attendance, the quintet's main-set drew entirely from the game-changing release. "Dream House"'s heavily arpeggiated chords had Clarke "screaming" in a near whisper as he ruminated on "sober restlessness." They were less the exhortations of a black metal singer and closer to a cat's inaudible death screeches. Sunbather's title track saw the morbidly dressed frontman flapping across the stage as the two guitar attack crushed the bones of the common man "down to yellow." For captaining such chaos, Clarke has a remarkable stage presence. His hands would curl up in a manner reminiscent of Magneto's flight routine and command the small crowd to rival his screams. There a certain cultishness to it, robotically disciplined but remarkably passionate. 

The band's bloodstained passion dripped continuously throughout the 60-plus minute set. You'd have to have passion to play songs that stretch to 8 or 9 minutes at a time. And any time their love of "violence" seemed unable to carry them over another wall of noise, Sunbather's interstitial passages of flanging guitar arrived on time. They weren't there simply as a breather though. Each My Bloody Valentine inspired echo was meant as a contrast; a sign that any beauty we eek out of our "short" lives is impossible without the occasional brutality.

I brought a friend of mine to the show who is also indifferent to more violent strands of heavy metal. Zach had largely come to see Arkansas doom metal band Pallbearer, whose set was riff manna from heaven to a starving crowd. They debuted two new tracks from their highly anticipated album Foundations of Burden, which figures to be one of metal's most important releases in 2014. Immediately after their set we could only say how "rad" it was. When the entire grueling night ended, he didn't have the same things to say about Deafheaven, but there was admittance to how powerful they were live. More than any other descriptor, that might be the most apt. Deafheaven’s a powerful band and they masterfully wield that power. 

Setlist:
1. "Dream House"
2. "Irresistible"
3. "Sunbather"
4. "Please Remember"
5. "Vertigo"
6. "Windows"
7. "The Pecan Tree"
Encore: 
8. "Unrequited"

(Original review posted for Demencha Magazine)

Roky Erickson Live at the Granada

Garage rocker/psychedelic innovator Roky Erickson's fascination with horror flicks is well-documented. He gleefully laughed in Vincent Price fashion behind his piano as flames burned bright. Freak lab-experiments litter his verses and demons are never far from thought. Even his most "well-known" solo song romanticizes zombies in a way Romero could only dream of. 

But perhaps the most important thing he's cribbed from countless horror films is the notion of the "sole survivor." As the psychedelic defining 13th Floor Elevators were drifting apart, he landed in a psychiatric hospital for several years, where he suffered through doses of Thorazine and electroconvulsive therapy. When he came out and began to undertake a solo career, he walked massively out of step. The Misfits like embrace he had for B-movie schlock wasn't chic enough for the mainstream and the golden days of psych-rock had begun to rust. He overcame the odds to craft a pair of fledgling, but impactful solo records. Erickson then vanished again, only to fully return with 2010's extremely well-received True Love Cast Out All Evil. In short, he's rock's ultimate survivor. Like Laurie Strode or Martin Brody, he's survived every flesh wound and psychic scar.

Perhaps unintentionally playing up his anachronistic career, Erickson arrived on-stage at the Granada on Friday tucked into a suffocating black button up and lounging cargo pants. He was less rockstar and more father-figure. That said, any parental tutelage came to a screeching halt as soon as the rousing "It's A Cold Night for Alligators" left the station. Erickson's Texas fried voice cut through the thick layers of static to speak of being "forever in loss."

His and the Hounds of Baskerville's wicked take on the Elevators' "The Kingdom of Heaven (Is Within You)"  was another shadow-lingerer. Erickson's hesitant gulps between critical lines in the track registered as preparing to take a dose of the most toxic cough syrup imaginable. While "garage rock" is one of the most common labels appended to Erickson, "blues" felt more appropriate in this case. And in true bluesman fashion, he turned his back to the audience during a critical solo. In service of a militant drum part, "Reverberation" chose a similar fate. A broken organ provided the only solace as the track looked inward to a "helpless mind."

This dour worldview wasn't all-consuming however. Erickson shared genuine chuckles and gave salutes to his youthful bandmates who kept dropping song suggestions his way all night long. "Slip Inside This House"s thick-as-molasses groove brought Erickson's distant gaze into a narrower focus and offered one of the night's best dance opportunities. Nearing 50 years old, "I've Seen Your Face (Splash 1)" retained its unguarded earnestness. More sugary than lysergic, it cut "like a knife" as the battle-tested Erickson warbled "we needn't bother sleeping, all we might say is understood." For someone who frequently scribbled lyrics into legal pads, his most arresting moments are the least fussed over. 

All roads lead to "You're Gonna Miss Me", the linchpin of Roky Erickson's oeuvre. Ditching the electric jug, the Nuggets warhorse reconfigured into a muscular rockabilly tune. Though the titular threat still came as a howl, its intent has changed over time. Originally a lover's proclamation that no love will ever measure up, it's now an encapsulation of Erickson. His absences are as pronounced as his appearances. Trudging out into a lightly snow-capped night I considered the import of his appearance, as a quote from a recently purchased reissue of Don't Slander Me bounced around in my mind. "You'll never know how scary rock and roll is" he once told record-collector Peter Buesnel. He's right. But nights like these give us a chance to understand.

 "I've Seen Your Face (Splash 1)"