I was fortunate enough last night to be invited to Brooklyn to check out a Kings Destroy practice and hear some of their new material as it’s coming together for their next record. If you’ll recall, their first album, …And the Rest Will Surely Perish, was put out on The Maple Forum, and I’ve dug on their stuff since their Old Yeller/Medusa debut 7″ came my way back in 2010. They’re good guys and a killer band.

They recently recorded a few new demos in Hoboken with Mike Moebius at his Moonlight Studios, and in their practice space, they ran through that material — songs like “The Toe” and “Holy Dice of Thunder,” which I’ve seen them do live a couple times, and “Pain Trade” — as well as some others still under construction. The new tunes are better than they know, and even though some were still pretty formative, I feel like I got a decent picture of where they’re headed.

One real look at Aaron Bumpus playing bass and you can tell almost immediately he’s the kind of player who could fit anywhere. Sure, his Sunn amp may have filled the room with the smell of melting tubes, but I swear, put that dude in a suit on stage with a jazz trio and he could probably handle it. He’s really just beginning to make his presence felt in Kings Destroy, and I think there’s room for him to add more to his fills, but he works really well with Rob Sefcik‘s drumming.

As for the songs, “Pain Trade” cops the beginning progression of the “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath” riff just enough to nod to the converted, but on the whole, they feel much less limited to genre and more self-assured. The first record, killer as it was (and it was) was very purposefully doomed. Doom was the mission. From what I could tell as I grooved out to the new songs, the doom is happening more naturally now. One riff that Chris Skowronski and Carl Porcaro ran through that was still basically skeletal reminded me of the chorus to “Love Hate Love” from Alice in Chains‘ Facelift, but they were able to make it work in the context of what they were doing, and Steve Murphy‘s vocal cadence took it somewhere else entirely. It was awesome to watch and I felt lucky to see it.

They have a lot of work ahead of them yet, but they could easily play four or five of those songs live and pull them off, and progress is being made. As a show of same and a way to preview the direction of the yet-untitled second Kings Destroy record, the band recently cut a video with director Lucia Grillo for the demo of “The Toe.” It’s pretty foggy, but they’re all in there, trying their damnedest not to look at the camera. I hope you dig it:

There was a moment, as I made my way around the block of North 6th St. in Brooklyn last Friday night, that I thought I’d never be able to find parking, and that I would just spend the rest of my days driving in that circle, like something out of The Twilight Zone. Maybe it would be some bitterly ironic punishment for having one time inadvertently dicked someone out of a spot, masterminded by that person secretly like Saw. I don’t know. Either way, I was sure I’d never get to the Music Hall of Williamsburg in time to see Monster Magnet, Naam or Quest for Fire, let alone LadyKiller, who were opening the show.

Turns out the opener was the only act I actually missed. I wound up finding a spot right outside the Academy Records Annex and rushed down the block to the venue with just enough time to spare to get my ticket and head in for the start of Quest for Fire. I felt like I lucked out. The room wasn’t too full as they got going, and as they opened with “Greatest Hits by God” from 2010′s Lights From Paradise (review here), it seemed like the universe was suddenly in the business of doing me personal favors. Amazing how fickle luck can feel.

I remembered standing outside the Bat Cave at Roadburn while Quest for Fire played, getting up on the bench along the wall opposite the open door of the room and trying at least to soak in some of their set and being tragically unsuccessful. To see them now, especially alongside labelmates Naam, was enough for me to make the difference between catching Monster Magnet in Brooklyn or going one night later to see them at the Starland Ballroom on a bill populated by pay-to-play openers. Seems like an easy call, but when you factor rolling into Williamsburg on a Friday night, you gotta really like Quest for Fire to make that weigh out.

Playing on Naam‘s equipment, the Toronto psych rockers justified the trip — both mine and theirs. Their songs were heavier in person, and rawer without the layering that comes through so lush on Lights From Paradise and its 2009 self-titled predecessor. Part of that is probably due to the fact they were down a guitar. Chad Ross, who also handles vocals, was playing bass, but even with just Andrew Moszynski‘s guitar, their psychedelia was subdued and moody where it wanted to be and never out of control when heavy, and drummer Mike Maxymuik gave each piece a dynamic pulse.

When they finished, I went out front to look for their merch, hoping to find a copy of Worldwide Skyline from Ross‘ solo-project, Nordic Nomadic, or maybe some other goodies, but no such luck. Monster Magnet had a tour-exclusive EP called Dopes for $15 that I’m still not quite sure why I didn’t buy, and neither Quest for Fire or Naam had anything for sale. Oh well. I didn’t get a shirt either. Or beer. All things considered, it was a pretty austere night. A $4 bottle of water and gas on the way home. Go figure.

Having seen them twice at Santos Party House in Manhattan last year (here and here), I knew enough to be sure Naam would do well in the role of the hometown heroes, and joined by the keys that seem to be more and more a regular fixture, they did just that. I had been hoping for some new material and it came in the form of “Starchild,” the title-track of their next EP, reportedly due in May. I’d heard the song live before, but it’s grown some in the months since, both in jammed-out presence and actual length. Naam have done a fair amount of touring at this point (most recently in Europe with Black Rainbows), and it showed in their performance.

They didn’t play many songs for time constraints, but guitarist/vocalist Ryan Lugar seemed more at ease on stage and bassist Ryan Preston Bundy‘s vocals were both better mixed and more confident than any other time I’ve been fortunate enough to see the band play. If they’re the hometown heavy psych heroes, it’s because of the wandering they’ve done in the past.

And maybe it’s just because with the Monster Magnet kit backlined behind him he was pushed further toward the front of the stage, or maybe it was following Maxymuik, but drummer Eli Pizzuto seemed to be especially crisp in his performance. Through the newer stuff and Naam‘s standard closer, “Kingdom,” from the EP of the same name, his fills served more than basic percussive function, and his focus was intense to the point of intimidation. While Lugar had his sway to the riffs and Bundy was ready at a moment’s notice to tilt his head back and hoist his beard aloft like an offering to the gods of facial hair who’ve blessed him with it, Pizzuto a little bit looked like he wanted to kick someone’s ass, and the variation in stage presences among the four players on stage only enriched the experience of their set.

It was almost like two shows rolled into one, though. You had Naam and Quest for Fire on one side, and then Monster Magnet coming from somewhere else completely. Sure, this was the tour where they were performing 1995′s Dopes to Infinity in its entirety, and you won’t hear me deny that record is a classic of American heavy psych rock, but where Naam and Quest for Fire both feel like they’re just getting to that point in their careers, that they’re really getting a handle on their aesthetic and the creativity they can bring to the form, Monster Magnet have long since moved onto something different, sound-wise, so for them to revisit it in Brooklyn was, in light of everything they’ve done since on their subsequent and more straightforward hard rock records, a bit incongruous.

For example, after Naam was done, the mood in the room changed. It was packed by then — a diverse crowd of fans young and old, some hard rockers and some heavy rockers — and as Monster Magnet‘s crew set up and checked the gear, it was like the air got colder, more clinical. It’s been a long time now since Monster Magnet decided they were a professional band, and the thing about Dopes to Infinity and their material preceding it is that they weren’t really professional albums, so as the crew taped down setlists all over the stage on all four sides, taped down wires so they wouldn’t get tangled, shifted monitor positions and warmed up the amps for guitarists Garrett Sweeny (of Riotgod) and Phil Caivano and bassist Jim Baglino (also Riotgod), I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if Monster Magnet just came out and played?

I realize that at this stage in the band’s career, that’s an unreasonable expectation. It’s not what they’re about. They’re about a more commercial brand of hard rock — one with a bent in the songwriting that appreciates the structures of late ’60s and early ’70s classics and with no shortage of personality thanks to the lyrics and vocals of band founder and principal songwriter Dave Wyndorf — but still a huge step away sonically from the band’s beginnings. Once they got going following a long stretch of house lights down, no one on stage and sitar drones coming through the P.A., watching Monster Magnet in 2012 play Dopes to Infinity was like seeing a completely different band.

Because it was a different band. Their last connection to that era, apart from Wyndorf himself, was lead guitarist Ed Mundell, who left following the release of 2010′s Mastermind (review here). Rounded out by drummer Bob Pantella (also Riotgod and The Atomic Bitchwax), the latest Monster Magnet lineup around Wyndorf is built to rock the way new Monster Magnet rocks — and they’re good at it, but it’s enough of a difference from what they did on Dopes to Infinity to be notable and definitely affected their interpretations of the material on stage at the Music Hall of Williamsburg.

One can’t really fault them for it, since they’re different musicians with different modes of playing than those that originally appeared on the album, and I won’t deny that Monster Magnet rocked the Dopes stuff hard, playing it out of the original order to better account for it being a live show and saving “Negasonic Teenage Warhead” for the encore. “Look to Your Orb for the Warning,” the title-track, “Dead Christmas” and “All Friends and Kingdom Come” were highlights as they are on the record, but the apex of the show came with “Third Alternative.” Wyndorf, ever one for killer stage banter, prefaced it by saying, “As this thing goes on, it gets darker — kinda like life, huh?” but then laughed it off and said, “But we won’t talk about that.” Why not? For a song that says, “I’ll stuff myself in a pit of darkness and slam till I can’t see home,” it’s not like there’s any beating around the bush going on. Own it.

That was the darkest part of their show, and among the most honest. Wyndorf nailed the delivery of the vocals — he called the song a “21st Century blues,” which was a little ironic since it came out in ’95 — and then left the stage as the band transitioned into the instrumental “Theme From ‘Masterburner’” before regular-set closer “King of Mars.” The crowd was in their pocket the whole time, and didn’t thin out at all when they finished “King of Mars” and went backstage, where they stayed long enough for me to get distracted and let my mind wander. It was late by most show standards these days, getting on 1AM, but there was no way I was missing the encore.

My perpetual hope is that at some point I’ll see them do “Spine of God” and have my consciousness fractured by it, spending the rest of my days in blissful, devastated catatonia. The reality — no doubt in part due to the circumstances of the band I described above — would no doubt be different, but if reason had anything to do with it, it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun. Nonetheless, no such luck on the encore. They did “Negasonic Teenage Warhead,” a welcomed plodding rendition of Mastermind opener “Hallucination Bomb,” “Powertrip” and, naturally, “Space Lord,” their biggest hit and most unavoidable single. Even if they didn’t want to play it, they couldn’t not.

Wyndorf himself acknowledged this, giving the most concise summation I’ve ever heard of a band’s view on their own material. As Sweeny and Caivano began the riff to “Space Lord,” he said, “Obvious? Yes. Necessary? Yes!” He was right. For whatever reason, Monster Magnet had to do “Space Lord,” and everyone knew it was coming, and everyone dug the hell out of it. I spent all of the subsequent Saturday with the chorus ringing in my ears — it’s simply undeniable.

So too is Monster Magnet‘s legacy. They may have departed sonically the field in which their influence is most felt, namely heavy psych and stoner rock, but their stage presence in the current incarnation is remarkable, and the players with whom Wyndorf has surrounded himself are masters at what they do — Caivano and Sweeny on guitar, Baglino like some kind of born rock and roll salesman on bass and Pantella on drums. I left the show and went back to my car outside the Academy Annex, stared down the block at the luxury riverfront condos that stood where once there had been vacant lots and run-down warehouses, and had to recognize for a moment that nothing is static, nothing stays undeveloped and that to ask the present to be the past is foolish. Dopes to Infinity had its day, Monster Magnet were as faithful to it as they wanted to be 17 years later. You either enjoy it for what it was or sulk, and sulking seemed to me a waste of time.

Extra pics after the jump, and thanks for reading.

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You know what’s more fun than adding the word “doom” to parts of other words? Nothing, that’s what. So when I saw the news that good people at BrooklynVegan, Catharsis PR and elsewhere are behind a new fest — and that they decided to call it Martyrdoom — well, the wordplay was just the icing on the extreme metal cake. Doomcake. There — I told you it was fun.

Here’s the info and poster for the fest, ripped from the headlines over at BrooklynVegan:

Signature Riff, BrooklynVegan, Order of the Serpent, and Catharsis PR are proud to announce the inaugural Martyrdoom fest! The two-stage Brooklyn metal extravaganza will feature exclusive area performances from Dead Congregation (Greece), Grave Miasma (United Kingdom) and Cruciamentum (United Kingdom), along with rare appearances from names like Sanguis Imperem (California), Kommandant (Illinois), Prosanctus Inferi (Ohio), Anu (North Carolina), Encoffination (Georgia/California), Father Befouled (Georgia/California), Perdition Temple (Florida), and Evoken (New Jersey), and will go down across two stages at Public Assembly on June 30th. Tickets are on sale NOW and will set you back $20 in advance and $27 at the door.

Sunday inevitably rolled around after seeing Kyuss Lives! on Saturday and Cortez/Mighty High on Friday, and where one tour was ending, another was just getting started. This time it was Black Cobra, emerged from under the Kyuss banner’s black sunbow/bird color scheme, taking on the role of headliner on a bill that teamed them with two of modern doom’s most formidable names: Zoroaster and The Body. I was exhausted, and had the show been just about anywhere else in Brooklyn but the Saint Vitus bar, which is unbelievably easy for me to drive to in non-rush-hours, I probably would’ve sat it out.

But I’d never seen The Body, and between last year’s All the Waters of the Earth Turn to Blood and this year’s Nothing Passes collaboration with Braveyoung, I’d been inundated enough with their fucked up sonics that I thought it worth my time and further wear and tear to show up and catch it in-person. Plus, I hadn’t seen Zoroaster since Mike Morris joined on bass in replacement for Brent Anderson and it had been nearly 24 hours since Black Cobra made my eyes bleed with the sheer force of their thrashing righteousness, so I had to go! I DVR’ed the Boardwalk Empire season finale (haven’t watched it yet, don’t tell me what happened) and hit the road.

Gang Signs opened, and I missed all but the last 30 seconds — literally — of their set. I barely had time to look up at the stage to see who it was before they said “thank you, good night.” Some you win, some you lose. There was a break while The Body positioned their strange tube-like drums and wall of bass cabinets, so I had plenty of time to stand there and obsessively check my email on my phone, send The Patient Mrs. text messages about how tired I was, check the forum for spambots and run through all the usual crap people do while pretending to look busy. When The Body, their sampler set and ready to roll, finally got going, they would be probably the loudest band of the night.

If it’s any indication of the kind of volume I’m talking about, guitarist/vocalist Chip King plays out of two sideways-stacked Ampeg 8x12s. The only other person I’ve ever seen pull that off is Dickie Peterson of Blue Cheer, who, of course, was playing bass. King ran his line through a Peavey combo amp and a bass head that had “Bastard Noise” on a plaque on the front, either in reference to the band or the sound it made. In combination with the distorted noise and samples from drummer Lee Buford, The Body‘s sound was huge low-end malevolence. King‘s screams rested far back in the mix as he stood away from the mic, and it was heavy enough that I was glad I left the house to see it. Their atmosphere is as pummeling as anything they actually do on stage.

I suppose that holds true for Zoroaster as well, though the Atlanta natives are a better stage act and were greatly aided at St. Vitus as always by an extensive light show — now with lasers! Their songs themselves came across in an overwhelming wash of noise through which drummer Dan Scanlan was charged with crashing, and as their progression over the course of their three-to-date full-lengths has taken them ever further into the psychedelic reaches, so too has their live show followed suit. I can’t remember if it was for 2010′s Matador or 2009′s Voice of Saturn that I last saw them (it was downstairs at Webster Hall in Manhattan), but there’s been a marked change in their dynamic since then, and undoubtedly the addition of Morris in the bassist role is a part of that.

Could be that Zoroaster are maturing and are more assured in their aesthetic, or it could just be the new trio lineup works well together and I caught them on a good night, but either way, Zoroaster looked to be exactly where they wanted to be in terms of sound and presentation. The crowd was a Brooklyn crowd, and it was Sunday, but the room heated up quickly with the energy spent — though that could also have been the tubes driving guitarist/vocalist Will Fiore‘s Green and Orange amps. With Morris putting a Sunn head through another of the evening’s several Ampeg 8x12s, I was starting to feel like I was at a trade convention for doom suppliers. Sounded cool, either way.

The danger as I see it for Zoroaster now is not losing themselves in it. They have this massively sensory experience happening, where the sound and the light envelops you and the band really seems to be going somewhere and taking you along, but I can’t help but also feel like they’re skirting a line between engaging and indulgence. If they are, they haven’t crossed it yet, and the crowd was certainly on board for what they brought to St. Vitus. It was Sunday night, and the crowd was meh, and I was meh, but they killed it anyway, and I’m excited to see where the follow-up to Matador takes them stylistically. It’s been quite a ride so far.

As each act played and then removed their equipment to make room for the next band, whose stuff was backlined behind, the size of the stage seemed to grow, so that by the time Jason Landrian and Rafa Martinez of Black Cobra were ready to start up, there was space on either side of them and they seemed clustered together in the middle, huddled almost. Behind them, a large banner bearing the cover of their new album, Invernal, draped down to the floor and scrunched up there like poorly-measured curtains, and when they launched their set, they did so entirely without ceremony. No intro, no samples, nothing. Just the ambient sound of the crowd and then that noise eaten in an instant by the start of “Avalanche.”

Headliners, they obviously had more time than they had the night before supporting The Sword (who they blew off the stage) and Kyuss Lives!, and they put it to good use, playing every song off of Invernal with highlights from 2007′s Feather and Stone and 2009′s Chronomega mixed in. The only cut from 2006′s Bestial to make it in was “Omniscient” (can’t fault the choice), so the focus was clearly on newer material, and though “Negative Reversal” and Feather and Stone closer “Swords for Teeth” were high points, they paled in comparison to the power Landrian and Martinez showed on “Abyss” and “Erebus Dawn,” their handling of which was so precise and careful as to be awe-inspiring.

Where Landrian‘s voice, presented cavernously in parts of Invernal, had been naturally bolstered by the high ceiling of the Wellmont, in Brooklyn, in the considerably smaller room, he sounded more compressed, albeit clearer in the live mix. It did nothing to lessen the force of the material, and so wasn’t a problem. And if Martinez was at all spent by the month solid he’d just spend touring in bigger venues, he didn’t show it. Rather, Black Cobra made it perfectly clear why they were at the top of the bill (the fact that they’re the ones with the newest record and neither band wanting to follow them might also have something to do with it) and ripped through a round with their most potent material yet.

I was ready to go after “Obliteration” — how could I not be, after that? — but as Landrian and Martinez stood on stage with their backs to the crowd, waiting to start the encore, it was clear they weren’t done. “Red Tide” and “Chronosphere” wrapped the night and I was quick out the door, the wall long since hit and my eyes halfway closed before I was on the other side of the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. It’d be another hour before I got back to the valley, and I’d wind up exhausted all week from the three nights out and with a cold to boot, but screw it. If 2011′s taught me anything, it’s taught me that you’re either there or you’re not there, and I have no regrets on this one.

Extra pics after the jump.

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Friday night, man. Traditionally you’re supposed to go out after work, get fucked up, party your ass off and all the rest of it. All I want to do on a Friday night is sleep. And usually, that’s how it goes. But when Cortez is making the trip down from Boston and hooking up with Mighty High for a show in Brooklyn that’s not even in the middle of hang-yourself Williamsburg, well, showing up is the thing to do. So it’s the thing I did.

Last time I was at Hank’s Saloon was just over a year ago, to see Black Thai (which boasts two members of Cortez in its ranks) hit up a gig with Thinning the Herd, and as low key as that was, I knew that with Mighty High on the bill, good times were bound to be had. When I rolled in, there was what had previously been described to me as an “alt country” act on the stage. It was a little white girl, soul-singing like little white girls do, accompanied by some dude who seems to have found Les Claypool‘s tailor on guitar. Striped pants, silly hat, and — inevitably, predictably, excruciatingly — a kazoo. Hell, it was bound to happen, but they were about half done when I got there, so it could’ve been worse. They covered Spinal Tap‘s “Gimme Some Money,” and that was a fun reference.

They’d been put on the bill by the venue, which as I understand it, is for sale. Bar-ownership being something of a long-term fantasy of mine, as Cortez set up their gear on the small stage, I looked up at the ceiling beams, down at the dirty floor, over at the walls full of pictures and stickers and post-its with cabbie phone numbers. I inhaled the smell of mold and thought to myself, “Yeah, I could do this.” The Patient Mrs., joining me for the night on the town, seemed less thrilled at the notion.

Cortez frontman Matt Harrington would soon blow out the Hank’s P.A., but as soon as they got going, they were on the ball. They hit up a few songs from their forthcoming self-titled (vinyl master is on the way, reportedly), including highlights “Monolith,” “Johnny” and the catchy “Until We Die,” with bassist Jay Furlo adding backups to Harrington‘s melodies while Scott O’Dowd, aka Scotty Fuse, let fly carefully constructed riffs and drummer Jeremy Hemond (also of Roadsaw and Black Thai) managed to do some equipment damage of his own. I can’t remember ever seeing him play that he didn’t require a new snare at some point in the set, and Hank’s was no exception.

They rocked in spite of any and all technical difficulties, and much as I’d hoped, the night played out as sans-bullshit as possible. All I wanted was a rock show with some good bands, good people, decently-priced beer and no Friday night fashion show, and that’s basically what I got. Mighty High‘s boogiethrash blend of Slayer, Black Flag, Motörhead, Sabbath and any number of ’70s obscurities I’m not qualified to name was the perfect finale. Decked out in a Foghat Live t-shirt, guitarist/vocalist Chris “Woody High” MacDermott introduced the native Brooklynite act by saying, “We’re The James Gang from Ohio,” and it only got better from there.

The thing about Mighty High, though, is that as much as songs like “Chemical Warpigs” (a highlight) “I Don’t Wanna Listen to Yes” (another highlight) and “Breakin’ Shit” (always a highlight) are about getting high and having fun, they’re also maddeningly good. Mighty High hit like a megaphone yelling at stoner rock to get its head out of its ass, but they have the chops musically to back it up. I’m not going to say they were perfect up there, but even where they stumbled, they did it right, guitarist Kevin Overdose, drummer Jesse D’Stills and bassist Labatts Santoro seeming to take the instruction to heart as Woody led the way through the opening cover of “Kick out the Jams.”

When they were done, I walked out with the “Hands Up!” chorus still in my head, where it stayed for much of the weekend, and — now that I’m thinking about it again — remains. The Patient Mrs. had already filled her rock quota for the evening and retired to the car, so I said some quick goodnights and we headed back to Jersey, where I happily checked off the first of three shows in a row and fulfilled my Friday destiny by crashing out as quickly as possible. Good fun.

Extra pics after the jump.

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Coming down Rt. 3 East heading toward the Lincoln Tunnel, the clouds hung low over Manhattan and reflected the lights of Midtown back onto itself. I couldn’t help but think of this again later last night as I watched EyeHateGod reflect back to Brooklyn the rigors of societal ills largely ignored by art and mainstream politics: addiction, disaffection, nihilism, riffing. The list goes on.

I got to Europa in Brooklyn‘s traditionally Polish Greenpoint neighborhood just in time to see the blackthrash duo Knight Terror open the gig. I’d have pegged them for locals, but apparently they came all the way from Portland, Oregon, to be there (though I imagine there’s a wormhole that makes that trip easier). With lead-vocal/drums and guitar, they blasted through a set of Slayer riffs and blackened screaming — think Midnight or Toxic Holocaust — and did nothing to offend. They had the first pit of the evening, if that’s any example of how they were well received by the crowd who, like myself, was still basically just showing up while they played.

The bill was right on. A Sunday show is a daunting prospect, and you could see in the crowd right from the start who had to get up and go to work Monday morning and who didn’t. I’ll say at the outset I was mostly there to see Hull play new material from the Beyond the Lightless Sky album. Having missed them at their release show with Rwake owing to family concerns and having missed them with Naam at the recent Acheron benefit because I live under a rock, I wasn’t going to let 2011 end without seeing them play those songs. EyeHateGod is great, don’t get me wrong, but it was Hull that got me off my ass.

And no regrets. The three-guitar five-piece gave solid confirmation of why I’ve come to think of them as Brooklyn‘s most formidable and creative metal export in the wake of Beyond the Lightless Sky. Playing second in front of Doomriders and EyeHateGod, their set was about 45 minutes, and in that time, they played only stuff from the new album, which suited me just fine since that’s what I’d been hoping for to start with, and hit off immediately with the complex rhythmic mayhem of “Earth From Water,” which, like the rest of it, they nailed.

Guitarist Nick Palmirotto‘s delivery of the songs — his vocals are probably the most consistently present in the songs, but at any point in a Hull set, anyone but drummer Jeff Stieber could be singing, and there’s usually more than one at once — is among the most passionate I’ve seen in a long time, and just off a recent month-long US tour, Hull made the Europa stage look and sound too small. Palmirotto, fellow guitarists Drew Mack and Carmine Laietta and bassist Seanbryant Dunn traded parts back and forth, growls and screams and shouts comingling with cleaner singing that seemed to be drowning in its own massive tonality. For Stieber‘s part, every snare hit on Beyond the Lightless Sky sounds like a sentence ending, and that remained true for the live set as well, but watching him play, I was all the more impressed for the ghost notes and subtler hits he works into his timing amidst the massive fills.

There’s some of that on the album, listening back now, but the impression I got during their set was it’s even more than they captured in the studio, which is saying something. The only place Hull saw a dip in momentum was between the songs. After tearing through “Beyond the Lightless Sky” or “Fire Vein” before closing out with “False Priest,” they had to stop and tune after each cut. Obviously they’re busy while they’re playing the songs themselves, but I felt like with three guitars, the bass and the drums, there should be noise the whole time, something to keep that forward drive moving. On the record, their longer tracks are offset by ambient/instrumental pieces, and I wanted some of that side to show up in the live setting as well.

Of course, it was a homecoming show for them, basically, playing to a crowd who knows them and has known them for a while, so I think it’s safe to say they were playing it casual, and either way, they killed it. Each off-time hit, on-a-dime turn and tempo shift was powerful, and they hit it all hard enough to remind what a month solid on the road can really do in service to a band’s chemistry. Some of Laietta‘s leads came through low in the mix (it might have been where I was standing), but I didn’t envy Doomriders having to follow.

But then, I’ve never been a particularly huge fan of Doomriders, or at least not as big a fan of the music as I am of the band’s name, which is unfuckwithably cool. Guitarist/vocalist Nate Newton had “Property of Converge” spraypainted on the back of his Orange cabinets (he was also in Old Man Gloom), and the Boston foursome took a bit to get into the swing of their set, but handled the songs well once they did. The thing about Doomriders that’s always kind of gotten to me, especially seeing them live as I have a couple times over the years, is I feel like the riffs are purposefully dumbed down. There’s nothing wrong with a band trying to keep their approach simple, but somehow Doomriders seem to be winking while they’re playing as if to say, “Yeah, we know we’re smarter than this.”

It wouldn’t be anything near the felonies committed when EyeHateGod took the stage — stabbings, arson, police brutality, jury tampering — but there was some violence in honor of Doomriders‘ energetic riffing and Newton‘s Tom Araya-esque shouts. I stood in back for most of the set, and did the same for EyeHateGod, and the now-full room was more than glad to go along with what the band had on offer, bassist Jebb Riley and drummer Chris Bevalaqua working up a sweat keeping up with the trying pace of Chris Pupecki and Newton‘s guitars, which were very much at the fore.

They didn’t really have me hooked until their last song, the irresistible groove of which was as an appropriate a lead-in as EyeHateGod could ask for. Regarding the New Orleans sludge mainstays/progenitors/forebears, I’ll say this: I had previously sworn off seeing EyeHateGod. I had (and I’m sure they were really feeling the loss) done so because I felt like every time I went and saw EyeHateGod, I was just enabling them to further delay putting out a new album, and god dammit, it’s time for a new EyeHateGod album. It’s about six years past time for a new EyeHateGod album, actually, and you know what the band’s not doing when they’re popping up to New York for shows? They’re not putting out a new album. So I said I wasn’t going to see them anymore until they had a new record to support.

Didn’t work out, clearly, but I did manage to gain some hope that the next EyeHateGod album will be good. Hear me out. When I last interviewed Jimmy Bower, he subtly expressed some concern that part of the reason it had taken the band so long to record and release a new album was that he didn’t know if they could be as dirty, as gritty and as fucked up as they once were. And after watching last night’s EyeHateGod set in Brooklyn, I realized this: EyeHateGod are fuck ups. Through and through. And it wasn’t even watching drummer Joe LaCaze snort something before they started playing, and it wasn’t frontman Mike Williams‘ occasional professions of his desire to die, it was Bower himself.

Arguably, unless bassist Gary Mader or guitarist Brian Patton (also of Soilent Green) owns a small business or something like that, Jimmy Bower seems to be the dude in EyeHateGod who most has his shit together. He plays in Down, he’s usually the public face, and he seems all around like a down to earth kind of guy. But when he broke a string last night before the band even started playing — it was during their big feedback opening — and effectively derailed the set before it even began, I stepped back and said, “You know, things are gonna be okay for the next EyeHateGod.”

Because that’s not the kind of fuck up you actively make. No one’s setting out to do that. It just happens. It’s who you are. Believe me, I know. I once watched as my car keys swirled around in a toilet and then were gone. If Jimmy Bower is at all worried EyeHateGod wouldn’t be able to be what they once were, he need have no such concerns. Ultimately, you can’t fight what you are, and as I watched Patton set his guitar down (still feeding back) and go over to help Bower restring his own, I was utterly comforted in knowing that whenever the next EyeHateGod studio effort materializes, things will be just fine.

To that end, they did play two new songs they’ve been kicking around for a while: “Medicine Noose” and “New Orleans is the New Vietnam” amidst the host of noisy, groovy familiars. Their set was a wash of riffs, cigarette smoke, and crowd violence. People were on and off the stage the whole time, and the rush to the stage when they finally got going was immediate. My back still hurts. Brooklyn, it seemed, didn’t care that it’s seen this show before. The crowd — myself included — was happy to revel in the sonic “opting out” that has always been EyeHateGod‘s hallmark, though at around midnight, the room started to thin out, as the aforementioned “had to work today” portion split.

With some acknowledgement of the blasphemy, I’ll add that I didn’t stay to see them finish either. At 12:30, I looked at my watch, realized I wouldn’t be home until 2AM, and made my way out. I can only assume, since I haven’t heard otherwise, that the show is still going on, well into Monday afternoon, and that EyeHateGod are continuing to destroy Europa as they’ve done so many times in the past.

A bunch of extra pics after the jump. Thanks for reading.

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From what I understand, Brooklyn‘s Saint Vitus bar is significantly less convenient for those who actually live in the city, but for me it’s just great. It may not be built on top of a subway station, but I know how to get to Greenpoint with my eyes closed (though maybe I keep them open anyway when I’m in the Queens-Midtown Tunnel), and I’ve yet to see a show there that wasn’t worth the effort of driving in.

The place seems like a decent compromise between being completely inconvenient on one side or the other between those who live in the city and those who don’t, is what I’m saying. They need to invest in a grown-up lighting rig for the stage in back, but other than that, it seems to be developing into a cool spot and I hope it continues to do so. By the time I got over to Manhattan Ave. last night, I was champing at the bit to get to the venue. Somehow I’d gotten it in my head that it was an early show. It wasn’t.

I was there maybe 20 minutes ahead of the start of Mount Olympus‘ set, which wasn’t bad, considering the bar was already starting to fill up. This being just two days after watching Fu Manchu pack out Santos Party House in Manhattan, it was duly encouraging to see a crowd at Saint Vitus, but I guess I’m still not used to people being at these shows. It’s cool and all, and I’m glad more and more are coming out, but it catches me off guard every time. I always expect the place — wherever it might be — to be empty.

But as Mount Olympus got going, they had plenty of audience to high-five, and high-five they did. Guitarist/vocalist Michael Guggino, who helmed the band with a kind of Josh Homme-ian casualness, came down from the stage at several points to engage the crowd. The music varied from punkish tempos to stonerly riffs, and in their last song, Guggino and fellow six-stringer Dickie Spectacular hit up a classic metal solo duel that was a bit cheeky but still more on the side of charming than obnoxious. My inner 14 year old thought it was epic in the same way he wanted to go play Dragon Warrior. I can’t keep that kid interested in anything these days.

Among set regulars “Medusa,” “The Mountie” and “Old Yeller,” Kings Destroy also played three newer songs that apparently they also recently cut as a demo (which they’re in the process of finishing) for their next album. I’d heard “The Toe” a few times already, and it was starting to get familiar, which is always cool, but the set-opener “Dice” and the penultimate “He Who Hath No Name” — which also apparently has the working titles “Decrepit Old White Woman” and “Skullduggery of Tricks” — were totally new to me.

Obviously seeing them once in a live setting is no basis for an ultimate judgment one way or the other, but it seems like the band is starting to branch out, be a little more brazen in what they’re doing. Steve Murphy‘s vocals are more confident and farther-ranging, and particularly “He Who Hath No Name” (or whatever it winds up being called; hard to beat “Decrepit Old White Woman”) was more complex musically and in terms of mood. They’re growing and learning what works best for them and how they can development. It’s exciting to watch. As Murphy took his turn coming down from the stage, guitarist Chris Skowronski sang along to “Old Yeller” from the stage — and that seems like a small thing, but you’ll never see it among bands unless the players have a real appreciation for what each other are doing.

It was the last night of the tour for The Gates of Slumber and Premonition 13, and the former took the stage in workman-like fashion. Over the course of their last couple albums and as they’ve spent more time on the road, touring life seems to have lost some of its novelty for Karl Simon and company, but he, bassist Jason McCash and drummer J. Clyde Paradis still got plenty into what they were doing. The setlist was derived almost entirely from their latest album, The Wretch, which is nothing to complain about.

Songs like “To the Rack with Them” and “The Scovrge ov Drvnkenness” were high points, but the unabashed doom misery of “Day of Farewell” made the set. They may have become the road dogs of American trad doom — seeing them now as opposed to a couple years back is much more like watching a professional band play one in a series of shows — but there’s no denying the potency of the material. Compared even to when they rolled through earlier this year with Orange Goblin, the energy was down, but The Gates of Slumber impressed nonetheless. By the time they finished, the room was full, and it would only get more so for Premonition 13.

Having it on good authority that the hot sauces Premonition 13 were selling at their merch table were delicious, I tried to buy the plum one (there were plum, peach and habanero options), but they were out and I picked up a full copy of the CD instead to go with the promo I’d received to review back when the record came out. The songs from that disc were memorable at the time and proved all the more recognizable as the band got going, starting off with dual e-bow guitar introductions from Scott “Wino” Weinrich and Jim Karow.

In talking to The Gates of Slumber‘s McCash prior to his band’s set, he said that the two bands were sharing a van and that Wino and Karow just jammed all the time. He wasn’t criticizing. He was amazed. He said they had little battery-powered amps, and all they did was play guitar together. Well, watching Premonition 13 on stage, I believed it. Of all the players I’ve seen Wino work with in a live setting, he was the most comfortable and at ease with Karow by a mile. They were like two parallel lines standing on opposite sides of the stage. Of course, Wino has the legacy and pedigree behind him, but the simpatico there was palpable.

I don’t know who was playing bass (maybe someone can help me out on that?), but Karow, Wino and drummer Matthew Clark ran through a set of cuts from the 13 album and it wasn’t so much a surprise, but they killed. I snapped some pictures and then stood in back to watch them run through the start-stop stomp of “Clay Pigeons,” the classically moody “La Hechicera de la Jeringa” and the blistering “Hard to Say.” Seems redundant to make the point that it was awesome, but it was. Solos were tossed back and forth, and though it’s not the highest-profile project Wino has running currently — that would probably either be the supergroup Shrinebuilder or Saint Vitus, whose first album in 17 years is due in March — Premonition 13 proved that it has something unique to offer among the slew of other Weinrich-inclusive acts from over the years. Karow‘s lead vocal on the bluesy “Modern Man” made that abundantly clear.

The subdued “Senses” made for a surprising finish to the set, but sure enough, Premonition 13 weren’t really done. As the audience clamored for one more song, Wino explained from the stage that, since the band was born from jamming, they’d like to finish by just jamming out for a while. Karow started playing a riff and they did exactly that. People had begun to trickle out already, to the bar or beyond, but those who stayed were glad they did, and watching the wall of noise gradually build coming from Wino and Karow‘s Marshalls, I felt like I had a better sense of where the band was coming from than even from listening to their songs.

Premonition 13 begin a European tour this weekend, and if you’re in that part of the world (they’ll play with Trippy Wicked in London; not to be missed), consider the show recommended. With everything else Weinrich has coming up and the fact that the band seems to be driven more by his friendship with Karow than any real business concern, who knows when the chance to see them will come again? I don’t regret one bit taking advantage of the opportunity.

I wanted to stick around and talk to Wino, maybe nerd out a bit on the limited information I have as regards the Saint Vitus record and the Conny Ochs collaboration, but my well honed instincts on such matters told me that it was better to leave the poor man alone and keep my fanboy bullshit to myself, so I did that instead and drove back through Manhattan, waiting through about 45 minutes of Holland Tunnel traffic to get back to the valley and take out the recycling and the garbage — someone had conveniently placed a broken microwave on the kitchen floor in hopes that, one assumes, garbage fairies would come and remove it from there to outside in the trash can — at 2AM. Part of the sky was clear, but tiny flakes of snow were falling from what clouds there were, and I couldn’t help but wish for a blizzard, which as any meteorologist will tell you, is just doom dressed in white.

Extra pics after the jump. I know this was a long one, so thanks for reading.

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I don’t usually do things this way, but because so much of what makes Hull’s second album for The End Records, Beyond the Lightless Sky, as ascendant as it is is how the Brooklyn triple-guitar five-piece have it organized, I feel it’s better to lay out the tracklist and runtimes up front rather than to go through the process of exploring each cut into the next and trying to mirror the experience of listening (at least that’s the theory behind it) in the review. Here they are:

1. Earth From Water (11:16)
2. Just a Trace of Early Dawn (5:02)
3. Beyond the Lightless Sky (6:50)
4. Curling Winds (2:36)
5. Fire Vein (9:40)
6. Wake the Heavens, Reveal the Sun (2:42)
7. False Priest (8:43)
8. A Light that Shone From Aside the Sea (3:12)
9. In Death, Truth (6:40)

Now, in looking at the list and listening through the narrative Beyond the Lightless Sky, which follows behind Hull’s 2009 The End debut, Sole Lord, and 2007 self-released Viking Funeral EP, the first thing one might notice is the disparate track times, and that gets to the very center of the album’s methodology. Everything under six minutes is instrumental, and with the exception of “Just a Trace of Early Dawn,” which is longer and a more substantive introduction to that side of the record’s personality, can be read as transitional material between the longer and more extreme (in a heavy metal sense) songs. With this album, Hull play post-metal ideology off post-rock ambience, and by that I mean they’re crushingly heavy in a cerebral sense – the drums of J. Stieber show immediate theory on “Earth From Water” and prove to be an excellent grounding force throughout – but given also to emotional stretches of guitar-led ambience, as on “Curling Winds” or the Pelican-esque “A Light that Shone From Aside the Sea.” Hull work so fluidly within these different but not necessarily clashing parameters that one is through the album’s 56:37 multiple times before the structure necessarily becomes apparent.

Helping that as well is that, as much as “Curling Winds,” “A Light that Shone From Aside the Sea” and the Neurosis-style tribal drumming of “Wake the Heavens, Reveal the Sun” — on which Jarboe (ex-Swans and current, well, Jarboe) offers distinct guest incantations and engineer Brett Romnes joins in the percussive pulse – are transitional leading from one longer piece to the next, they’re substantial in their own right, harnessing cloud-covered atmospheres to match Hull’s stated conceptual framework for Beyond the Lightless Sky, which tells the story of two ancient Mayan brothers, one who, “finds salvation amongst the stars and the wisdom of a stranger, while the other is mesmerized with the bloodthirsty belief of sacrifice and self-mutilation” (source). While they can’t necessarily match the likes of the title-track for intensity or the luminescent triumph of “Fire Vein,” they have their own progression, and particularly in the case of the last, underscore the strong interplay of guitarists A. Mack, C. M. Laietta V and N. Palmirotto (Hull are notoriously guarded when it comes to full names) leading into the rampant complexity of the closer. Beyond the Lightless Sky joins the ranks of strong 2011 releases from the likes of Rwake and Grayceon that affirm there’s more to be done in post-metal than aping Isis’ Panopticon. On their second album, Hull have come into their own and not only join the ranks of forward-thinking American metallers, but position themselves at the front of the pack with a few moments of unabashed, unashamed modern metal.

And of course there’s more to the appeal of Beyond the Lightless Sky than structural intricacies. The guitars are fairly compressed – one imagines that with three and such thunderous tones between them they have to be to achieve any clarity – and a Billy Anderson (Melvins, Eyehategod, Sleep, et al) mix puts a lot of emphasis on S.B. Dunn’s bass, which only makes the start-stop progression that agonizes during the final moments of the title-track all the more tense. Hull earns immediate kudos by starting with their longest song, and “Earth From Water” soon earns respect on a sonic level as well with a driving pummel and the multi-vocal tradeoff approach that typifies most of Beyond the Lightless Sky. That variety makes the record feel manic at times, and perhaps busier than Hull might have intended, but to coincide with the ebb and flow structure of the songs is an ebb and flow structure within them. Palmirotto, Laietta and Mack play off each other excellently for “Earth From Water” and across the rest of the album, coming together to amass a giant riff for the song’s instrumental chorus (also where Stieber first shines) as one soon takes flight for one of Beyond the Lightless Sky’s several landmark solos. It can be an overwhelming listening experience, but the real genius of the way its put together is that Hull, in effect, provide breathing room for each of their longer tracks.

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I had already flown over to Roadburn in The Netherlands to see Saint Vitus play earlier in the year, so when the band came around on a weekender tour and played Europa in December, there was no way I wasn’t going to the show. It was packed out, Brooklynite hipsters and classic doomers commingling and downing Polish beers as the best American doom band of all time let loose about two hours of their ungodly wares. I stood, as ever, by the bar.

There’s a ton of video from that night and from that tour and the tours they’ve done since, but seeing them so close to my home turf will always have a soft spot in my heart, so when I searched for “The Troll” and the clip came up, the decision basically made itself. “The Troll” comes off of 1988′s often-overlooked Mournful Cries, which is the middle child between the classic Born too Late (1986) and V (1990) but still a landmark in its own right. Whatever point in the Vitus catalog you want to hold them up to, I think “Dragon Time” and “Looking Glass” more than hold up.

But tonight, it’s “The Troll.” Hope you enjoy.

In 74 minutes, you can get on a plane in New York and end up 220 miles north in Boston. The distance Brooklyn haze rockers Eggnogg cover in that time is no less expansive. Their second full-length, Moments in Vacuum (Palaver Records) compiles eight mostly-extended tracks drawn together by consistency in the production that seem to nudge their way into a variety of riffy subgenre classifications. Only “Raking in the Dough” (4:32) and the thickened three-minute noisefest “One Monster’s Confession” are under eight minutes, but Moments in Vacuum is immersive enough to live up to its title and justifies its length by unfolding in two distinct halves. It’s almost like Eggnogg – who made their debut with 2010’s The Three and followed with their Nogg EP – compiled two smaller releases each with an individual mindset and set about making them flow as a whole. It’s not quite a split with themselves, but the album does take a turn in its middle following “Nebuchadnezzar” that is striking on repeat listens. The first couple times through, one might not notice or simply wake up from the trance at the end of 15-minute closer “Rhythmic Past” and only then realize how much of a journey one has made. Eggnogg have a natural sound brought out by the recording job of guitarists Justin Karol and Bill O’Sullivan – the latter who also handles the surprisingly diverse vocals – and as Moments in Vacuum gradually gets darker atmospherically leading to the end, that feel is ultimately what keeps the band on track.

Foremost, they’re heavy. In their more intense moments, as on opener “Magog,” O’Sullivan lets loose gruff shouts from the bottom of a canyon that still seems to be higher than the subterranean tone of his and Karol’s guitars and bass. Drummer Ryan Quinn’s task is made somewhat easier by the repetitive nature of some of Eggnogg’s riffs, but when “Magog” slams into a slowdown after five minutes in and the first of Moments in Vacuum’s several samples is introduced, he’s able to hold the time and pacing together and keep his cohorts from spiraling out of control. Nonetheless, the fuzz is overbearing. Hairy, even. Eggnogg play through an aural fog of unabashed burnoutism that’s a stirring reminder of how long ago we all should’ve dropped out of life. The line “sock it to me” sampled from the tv show Laugh-In ends “Magog” and turns out to be a theme running through the first couple tracks. Eggnogg underscore the groove with “Raking in the Dough,” which is essentially a funk song built around a single progression and strummed-out chorus, but righteously catchy all the same. As the opening verse unfolds with the lines, “I understand/Financial man/Knows what he wants and gets it he flaunts it/Sees it all go to plan” before the repeated chorus of “It’s alright I’m raking in dough,” it’s probably Moments in Vacuum’s most directly blues-based stretch. O’Sullivan carries it with a throaty but laid back vocal, and simultaneous left/right channel guitar soloing leads into stoner grooving that would make Brant Bjork proud. Once again, “sock it to me” closes.

As both “Wheel of the Year” and “Nebuchadnezzar” reach close to 12 minutes, they mark the point at which Moments in Vacuum really becomes hypnotic. It’s a hard album to sit through and analyze on a per-song basis, because the overall experience of zoning out to it is so much a part of what makes listening enjoyable. “Wheel of the Year” starts out with a soft guitar interlude/intro and gradually moves into a riff that could be called slow until Eggnogg really hits the brakes tempo-wise on the album’s second half. Still, the song seems to lurch its way into its last third, which picks up thanks to a fast riff and some Sabbathian beat-keeping from Quinn behind the guitar lead. The swagger Eggnogg pull off at the end of “Wheel of the Year” sets the table well for the sleepy warmth of “Nebuchadnezzar,” which isn’t as fuzzed-out as a song like “Magog” or the latter part of the closer still to come, but no less engaging for its laid back sway. Once again, O’Sullivan suits his vocals to the cause, and though the increase in tempo that comes on later in the song would lead to some structural comparisons between “Nebudchadnezzar” and “Wheel of the Year” – maybe rightly so – Eggnogg take the song to a different place stylistically and Moments in Vacuum doesn’t repeat itself in any way that isn’t intended on the part of the band. Certainly, as “One Monster’s Confession” shifts the feel of the record into something darker and wholly more doom-based, redundancy isn’t a concern. The abrasiveness Eggnogg show there is echoed later in the huge riffing and screams that top the finale, but “One Monster’s Confession” is still probably their darkest moment. Something about the bass tone reminds of the inhuman extremity of Godflesh, but of course the context surrounding is entirely less lucid.

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It was going to take a bastard of a bill to make me crawl out from the rock I’ve been hiding under and go see a show at the Acheron in Brooklyn, but Friday night, that’s just what I got. The show began two nights in a row of Earthride, and boasted hometown ultra-doomers Archon and the similarly-minded ambient evil deeds of Connecticut‘s When the Deadbolt Breaks in the support slots. After sitting in traffic for approximately four hours to get from Central Jersey to the gig, I was in just the right mindset for Archon‘s screaming dirges.

I had four dollars to my name and spent them promptly on a can of High Life. Archon were already loaded in and ready to roll. The room — longer than it is wide, black-painted cinderblock or brick with drywall and cement floor, small stage and high ceiling — wasn’t full, but the turnout was decent given the probably five or six other shows happening down the block in Williamsburg. The dreadlocked/male contingent of Archon‘s vocalizing duo, Chris Dialogue, bassist Nikhil Kamineni and drummer Rajah Marcelo are all also members of Alkahest (album review here), so with vocalist Rachel Brown and guitarist Andrew Jude the only parties unaccounted for in that band, it was kind of like the two acts had merged on stage. Heavy as hell, either way.

Jude, who as I understand it writes most of the material, always seems to have one foot planted in Dopesmoker no matter the project he’s involved in — and that’s not a critique, since anyone who’s heard Archon‘s death/doom plod will tell you he’s doing more than merely aping the influence. Dialogue set up down in front of the stage on which the other four members of the band played and did the kind of thrashing around I’ve come to expect from his performances, his low growls and high screams sounding no less vicious for the physical exertion. His vocals and Brown‘s — mostly melodic, but with some screams in there as well — played off each other well, and though the bass seemed to be lost in the room through much of the night, there was sufficient low end to stand up to the multi-pronged assault.

That was true as well for When the Deadbolt Breaks. Like Archon, they’re a band I consider friends more than a group I’d be able to really review with total impartiality (which, as a concept, is a farce anyway), but I was glad to see them anyhow and hear Aaron Lewis‘ violent levels of volume. He and bassist Roman Garbacick shared screaming duties and, together with new drummer Rich Kalinowski, crafted a sound as foreboding as the band’s name. Kalinowski‘s china cymbal kept getting stuck up next to Lewis‘ Sunn rig, but he worked with it and it was far and away the best drumming When the Deadbolt Breaks has ever had. Lewis has been through a few rhythm sections and singers over the years, but with Garbacick and Kalinowski (sounds a little like a law firm), he has two presences in the band to complement his own.

One of my favorite aspects of Deadbolt‘s sound has always been the creepy parts. Lewis has always been patient in steering the band through these sections of malevolent ambience, and though the Acheron wasn’t ideal for Garbacick‘s heavy bass or Kalinowski‘s china, the black walls and forced-in sound did work with the psychologically disturbing elements of their approach. Of course, they contrast those stretches with hurtful sludge, so you have to take it with the context surrounding as well. At this point, I’ve seen and done shows with them so many times over the years I’d be hard-pressed to pick a favorite, but this might be the most together lineup When the Deadbolt Breaks have put together yet. Here’s hoping it sticks.

And it’s funny to think of it, but in a way, Earthride were the odd men out on their own bill. Archon and When the Deadbolt Breaks — whom Earthride vocalist Dave Sherman referred to as “Acheron” (the name of the venue) and “When the Deadbolt Strikes,” respectively — had enough similarities of approach between them to be cohesive, but throw in Earthride‘s more stonerly-directed riffing, laid back doom groove and always-charming (no sarcasm; see previous sentence) stage antics, and it was a whole different kind of heavy. Bassist Josh Hart and drummer Eric Little were even more in the pocket than at SHoD, and guitarist Kyle Van Steinberg, also of War Injun, busted into a few freakishly good solos. I’m not 100 percent, but I think they might also all have been stoned.

They opened with “Fighting the Devils Inside of You” from 2005′s Vampire Circus and moved into a few cuts from last year’s Something Wicked album, starting with the righteously grooving title-track and “Hacksaw Eyeball,” which Sherman noted was about the band’s hometown in Frederick, Maryland, and which underscored the point of how much Southern Lord missed the boat on not putting out that record. “Hacksaw Eyeball” might have been Sherman‘s best performance, taking the blown-out screams and cleaner choruses of the album version and bringing them to life, but I wouldn’t discount the riff-riding the frontman broke out for “Earthride,” arms stretched out in front of him, steering an invisible stoner rock chopper down I-95 to some freedom most of us will never see.

When they were finished, the crowd demanded another song, and with some discussion, they acquiesced. The place never really packed out, but it was clear that those who showed up knew why they were there. I left soon enough after they were done and headed back through Manhattan to pick up The Patient Mrs., who’d spent the evening among the ranks “occupying” Wall Street — and if you ever want a convenient metaphor for what our relationship is like, that’s it.

Like I alluded to earlier, it was the first of two nights in a row I’d be seeing Earthride. The second was at Asbury Lanes in the surprisingly built-up Asbury Park, NJ, where they were on the bill for (former) Solace guitarist Tommy Southard‘s wedding reception. I’d write about that too, but it seems tacky somehow to review someone’s nuptial celebrations, however much Shiner Bock I may have imbibed. Suffice it to say a good time was had by all (again), and Earthride delivered the doom as increasingly they seem to be the only ones able to do.

Many more pics after the jump.

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Still very much in recovery mode from this past weekend, I made my way following a school obligation into NYC to catch Virginian bass/drum outfit Akris play at The Cake Shop. I planned on it being a kind of subdued evening — not much fanfare around the show, but just an excuse to get out and see a cool band do a set — and mostly it worked out that way. It was Tuesday, so even the tiny Ludlow St. had parking, and though there’s people out every night in New York (every day is somebody’s emergency/celebration that requires expensive drinking), the numbers weren’t egregious or specifically annoying.

When I tried to take $60 out of the ATM, it rejected my card for insufficient funds. The show cost one-tenth of that to get in, and I had that at my disposal. Akris was set to play second, with Brooklynite four-piece Descender opening and Gang Signs — who I didn’t stay for, sorry — closing out, but nobody went on for a while, so I busied myself toward the rear of The Cake Shop‘s upstairs with email and whatever else it is people do with their phones. Games. Texting my wife. Whathaveyou.

Descender got going around 9:30PM, maybe a little after. They played the new post-hardcore, and by that I mean their breakdowns went to college and when they yelled, they did it like grown-ups. Both guitarist Angelo Pournaras and bassist Jay Morris handled vocals, the former in the lead role, and the songs were good, if reminiscent of a screamy Pelican, some of the Translation Loss roster and probably a dozen or so obscure bands I’m not cool enough to know by name. The room downstairs, where the show was, wasn’t crowded. A couple hip-cats here and here, friends of the band talking shit to the stage, Pournaras, Morris and the other two members — guitarist Eric Palmerlee and drummer George Manolis — talking back, joshing. I like that kind of thing.

They weren’t bad for what they were doing — “And So We Marched,” which is the title-track of their new, Andrew Schneider-recorded EP, was a high point — but ultimately I was probably too exhausted to really engage the music as I might and probably will some other evening. I snapped a couple pictures and downed a Newcastle, which is my go-to beer for The Cake Shop. Eminently drinkable, but not at the sacrifice of flavor (you might say the same thing about Descender). I’d done a pretty decent amount of beering Monday after work — whose bright idea was it to make Tuesday a weekday, anyhow? — and so wasn’t looking for anything too exciting, even apart from the issue of transportation and being at the show by myself.

Still, I did also have a Paulaner Oktoberfest as Akris was setting up — at a certain point, you just need something to do with your hands — forgetting that The Cake Shop, in the fine tradition of Manhattan‘s lost basement dives, has tap lines dirtier than the sidewalks outside. I roughed through it in time for Akris‘ start and figured that was a decent enough conclusion to the night’s imbibing. Akris were suitably attention-consuming anyway, so it’s not like I got that “you’re not a human being” feeling that I usually do at shows by myself, sitting there in the quiet.

I first heard Akris on the compilation Son of the Transcendental Maggot (review here), where their song “Kentucky Russian” was among several highlights. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I sort of already knew the band. Bassist/vocalist Helena Goldberg (also currently in Lord) is an NYC expat formerly of a duo called Aquila, whom I saw play several times during their tenure, before Goldberg moved to Virginia. All the better, then, to catch Akris — in which the formidable bassist is joined by drummer Sam Lohman (ex-Sheer Terror) and hidden-behind-his-rig noise specialist Jon Simler (Cash Slave Clique) — as they rolled through her former stomping grounds.

Having nothing to compare their live set to but the demo I got at Stoner Hands of Doom XI in Maryland last month — which, fortunately, was recorded live — Akris seemed much fuller-sounding on stage. Part of that could’ve just been the massive volume of the Sunn Concert Bass head Goldberg was running through the traditional Ampeg 8×10, but I think Simler had a lot to do with it, as the static and manipulated samples occupied a lot of the sonic space that other instrumentation (i.e. guitars) otherwise might. Lohman had a sampler as well that he punished at several intervals during pauses in his drumming and between songs, and the overall result was that Akris seemed much more of a complete band.

I recognized a couple songs from the demo, among them the playfully malevolent “Fighter Pilot.” There’s something off-kilter about the melody as sung by Goldberg on that song, but intriguingly so, and I was glad to have the chance to see it live. The same could be said for the whole set, I guess. Akris‘ appeal seems to be in the exposure of raw elements. Goldberg handles riffs like they’re trying to run away from her hands, and Lohman has an underlying technicality to his playing that only makes it seem more unhinged. Their songs are intense bursts of sunspot energy, frantically thrashing at times, but capable too of slipping into and out of heads-down Melvinsian riff pummel — a groove that can be nasty and a nastiness that can groove.

They’re still pretty clearly in a formative period, but Goldberg and Loham were notably tight, and Simler‘s contributions gave Akris an experimental edge that one hopes they continue to develop. They reportedly did some recording at Seizure’s Palace in Brooklyn while in town, so I’ll look forward to hearing the results of that, and in the meantime, last night’s show might not have been the biggest draw on Ludlow — the rocker-pants dude I saw coming out of Piano’s on my way back to my car after Akris‘ set seemed to be doing alright — but it was a quality gig by a band I’m glad to have seen. Not bad for a Tuesday.

Extra pics after the jump.

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The carton from which Lo-Pan frontman Jeff Martin is drinking in the candid picture above reads “Boxed Water is Better.” There’s a life lesson in there somewhere, but mark my words, I have no clue what it might be.

After bolting from a school obligation in Newark and stopping only to grab sushi takeout on my way to Brooklyn for the BrooklynVegan/The Obelisk-presented gig at Union Pool with The Brought Low, Lo-Pan and Suplecs. I was excited to see the bands and glad it had stopped raining from earlier in the day, but more than either of those, I was just in a hurry to get there.

Being involved in booking and promoting shows is nerve-wracking work, and to those who do it on a regular basis — and that includes Fred from BrooklynVegan, who invited me to be a part of the show out of the blue and the kindness of his heart — much respect. I can’t imagine being responsible for making people show up somewhere, trying to draw a crowd. I have a hard enough time getting my own ass off the couch, let alone anyone else’s.

That said, if e’er a rock bill in Brooklyn was going to do it, it was this one. With the two-day Small Stone Records showcase in Philadelphia this weekend featuring all three of these bands (and many others), I was thinking of the show as an unofficial warm-up, a kind of unofficial mini-showcase — but really, however you phrase it, it was a killer night. The Brought Low went on at 9:30, and if you looked back from there, you wasted your time.

I don’t know how many times I’ve said it at this point, but every time I see them affirms my opinion that The Brought Low are the best rock band in New York. They played a set that felt short, but pulled probably the night’s biggest crowd. The two faster cuts from their recent Coextinction Recordings EP, “Army of Soldiers” and “Black River” — on which bassist Bob Russell took lead vocals from guitarist Ben Smith — sounded great, and the material from last year’s Third Record was no less thrilling than when I heard it the last time I saw them in December. Nick Heller‘s drumming behind Smith‘s come-a-creepin’ guitar line on “My Favorite Waste of Time” gave me a newly-revitalized appreciation for that song.

That was about as subdued as they got. The rest of their time was devoted to energetic, upbeat songs like “Blues for Cubby” off of 2006′s Right on Time, which was another highlight. They were probably the perfect way to kick off the show, and set a high bar for Lo-Pan, who I don’t even know how many times I’ve seen this year at this point (another to come Friday in Philly). Union Pool‘s sound suited them well as they ran through tracks from the instantly classic Salvador, released earlier this year.

Guitarist Brian Fristoe played probably the best and most engaged set I’ve seen from him — Lo-Pan‘s stage configuration puts the instruments out front and the aforementioned Jeff Martin in the rear, and Fristoe is usually pretty subdued compared to drummer Jesse Bartz and bassist Skot Thompson, seemingly preferring to let the fuzz and the riffs do the talking — but it didn’t wind up doing him any favors. Late in the set, he broke a string and the considerable momentum Lo-Pan had built coming off “Bird of Prey” took a substantial hit.

It didn’t stop them. Jokes were tossed back and forth in the break while Fristoe changed out the string, and Lo-Pan was tight enough that when they picked back up and closed out with “Generations,” I didn’t hear another word about the string. In talking to the band before and after they played, they said they were well rested, and they played like it. Comparing it to a few weeks back at Stoner Hands of Doom XI, they were pretty great then, but better last night. Clearly just a band at the top of their game making the most of their time on the road. It’s exciting to watch them.

And what to say about Suplecs? The New Orleans trio’s bassist Danny Nick mentioned from the stage that it was the band’s first time in Brooklyn since opening for Clutch and The Hidden Hand at L’Amour in 2004. Last time I saw them was right around then as well, at South by Southwest that year. So seven years and two albums later, they loaded onto the Union Pool stage and let loose with songs from across their discography. I missed the start, but came back in shortly thereafter in time for the anthemic punk chorus of “Stand Alone” from 2011′s Mad Oak Redux, which carried even more heft live, Nick and guitarist Durel Yates sharing vocal duties and driving the rhythms nailed down by the stellar drumming of Andrew Preen.

“White Devil” from 2001′s Sad Songs… Better Days made my night, plain and simple. And that Suplecs followed it up with their take on The Beatles “I Want You (She’s So Heavy),” which was included on the same album tacked to the more shuffling “Unstable” was even more righteous, but what was most striking about their performance wasn’t even how tight the band was — 15 years of a solid lineup will do that — but just how much diversity there is in their material.

Maybe it’s harder to hear on their records (though I would and have argued that their studio stuff has much to offer in terms of personality), but throughout the course of their time, it occurred to me just how many different roads Suplecs was taking the audience, from the hardcore punk of “Stand Alone” to the ultra-stonerly riffing of “White Devil” and “Dope Fu,” to the extended jams and solos they fused into the latter half of their set, to the off-the-cuff take on early Metallica — I think it was “Four Horsemen” — they threw into their finale. Yates, Nick and Preen made all these changes and shifts work, so that if you weren’t paying attention, you hardly even noticed the movement from one to the next.

On a night of impressive feats, that of Suplecs was as appropriate a finish as The Brought Low‘s was a start, and for that, and for the utterly transcendent fuzz of Lo-Pan in between (yeah, yeah, I know, I’m a nerd for Lo-Pan), the show was perfect. The crowd was filled with good people, Union Pool‘s sound is killer, and I even managed to make it back to my foggy river valley in New Jersey without running out of gas. I couldn’t possibly have asked more from the show than I got.

And for that, I owe Fred from BrooklynVegan thanks. I’m no promoter, and I don’t know squat about putting on shows, but Fred was cool enough to ask me if I wanted to be involved and it was hugely appreciated. Thanks too to everyone who came out and made it as special as it was. If I needed another reason to be stoked for Philly this weekend (I didn’t), this was it.

Extra pics after the jump, as always.

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Presented by BrooklynVegan in conjunction with The Obelisk, three of Small Stone Records‘ finest will lay waste to Union Pool in Brooklyn this evening. Doors open at 9PM. Hope to see you there.

A much-needed dinner with The Patient Mrs. meant getting to the Saint Vitus bar after both Fashion Week and Bezoar played, which left Pigs and Totimoshi still to come on the bill for my second night in Brooklyn. This time, I rolled into the place like an expert, my awkwardly large camera bag on my shoulder, and set up shop at the bar for a homebrew before Pigs went on.

My positive first impressions the night before were confirmed when the bartender, instead of pretending to have never seen me before after a moment of recognition (as is the custom in the city), asked me, “Weren’t you here last night?” I said I was and a pleasant conversation ensued. Imagine human interaction. Very cool.

When Pigs got going, I made my way past Totimoshi‘s merch — in my mind saying, “I don’t need to buy the record right now,” as if it wasn’t inevitable — through the curtain and into the back room to watch their set. The trio is made up of guitarist/vocalist Dave Curran (Unsane, Players Club), drummer Jim Paradise (Players Club) and bassist/vocalist Andrew Schneider (Slughog, also producer for The Brought Low and countless others in and around NYC and beyond); all three Brooklyn locals. The sound was probably what you’d expect if you ever heard Players Club, resting on the spectrum between that band’s riffier, somewhat melodic take and Unsane‘s flat-out noise aggression.

They’ve been around for a bit, but it was my first time seeing them (quite a weekend of firsts I had), and I was eager to do so. The occasional interplay between Curran and Schneider on vocals did a lot to offset the visceral screams from the former alone, and Paradise proved to be yet third in the line of excellent drummers I saw this weekend at Saint Vitus — I’d soon add Chris Fugitt from Totimoshi to complete the list — and though the changes in approach between the songs were subtle, I got a sense of them just from hearing the songs live once through, which makes me suspect the material comes across even more diverse on record. As all three members of Pigs (plus Unsane‘s Chris Spencer, who was also at the show) are behind Coextinction Recordings, the avenue for hearing recorded versions seems obvious.

Last time I saw Totimoshi was circa 2008 at the now-kaput basement Club Midway in Manhattan. Like Pearls and Brass the night before, they’re a band I’ve been a fan of for years on top of years who’ve been largely underappreciated by those outside a limited critical circle. Unlike Pearls and Brass, though, Totimoshi never stopped. I did wind up buying a copy of Avenger, the new album, before they went on, and regretted it not for one moment after their set got going, as it’s where most of what they played was taken from.

Set-wise, they went no further back than 2006′s Ladrón — “Viva Zapata” and “The Dance of Snakes” were highlights — and of the newer cuts, “Mainline” proved the most immediately recognizable. As a special surprise, they included a cover of the Hendrix classic “Are You Experienced?” that set the song’s original swagger against Totimoshi‘s desert-inflected tonality. Guitarist/vocalist Anthony “Tonymoshi” Aguilar (no one calls him that that I know of, but being a fan of portmanteau, I’m trying to start the trend) convincingly delivered both the lines and blissed out leads of that song and of Avenger closer “Waning Divine,” cutting the song somewhat short at the end, but still giving enough of an impression for the crowd to get a sense of what Mastodon‘s Brent Hinds contributes to the album.

Bassist Meg Castellanos and aforementioned drummer Fugitt both contributed vocals to “The Fool” — the latter through a headset microphone that made him look a little bit like a motivational speaker — which proved even catchier in person than on disc. The body of Castellanos‘ Rickenbacker was roughly the size of her own torso, but she wielded it expertly nonetheless, her tone melding with Aguilar‘s own and her stage presence complementing his sometimes frenetic or spastic energy with a kind of subdued confidence as the trio plowed through the instrumental “Calling all Curs.”

For his part, Fugitt looked like a consummate professional. The drumming gloves might have helped, but in watching him play (and as I say, I’d already had a dose of killer drumming to compare), it’s not that he lacked conviction, but that he looked like you could have put any style of music in front of him and he’d have been able to play it just as well. I don’t know his history in terms of projects he’s been involved in, but it wouldn’t surprise me at all if he’s done session work. His style was creative and his playing so solid that it seemed like he’d have no trouble sitting down with anyone’s song, know it front to back in five minutes and play it with the abandon of a kid in the garage who thinks no one’s around.

As the third in the three-piece with founders Aguilar and Castellanos, he was more than good company to keep. Totimoshi‘s set seemed short (they cut the title track from Ladrón from their written setlist), but was wholly satisfying anyway, and for the second night in a row, I felt happy to have made the trip into Brooklyn. I don’t know when I’ll get back to Saint Vitus — I was a little tempted to show up on Sunday, just for the hell of it — but whenever it is, I’ll be glad to be there.

A couple extra Totimoshi pics after the jump.

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