A Place to Bury Strangers
Friday, October 10, 2008
The Record Bar
Better Than: Complete eardrum blowout.
By BERRY ANDERSON
On Friday, I heeded the call of the Wayward Son and agreed to provide my unadulterated opinion on a performance by Brooklyn’s A Place to Bury Strangers. Little did I know, that night would provoke the beginning of my quickly waning patience with “the scene that celebrates itself.” After the jump, read the completely intriguing details surrounding the reasons why I question my faith in shoegaze.
Click on photo for a slide show.
Last week, I turned 30 and reaped the benefits of this momentous occasion with a pair of tickets to see Lisa Lampinelli, provided by an esteemed associate of mine, Miss Alicia Solombrino. While rushing from downtown to the Uptown and then to the Record Bar, I listened to a promotional copy of A Place to Bury Strangers self-titled LP given to me by Mr. Harper. Rough on my car stereo, the disc provided the perfect soundtrack for my building road rage and pending impatience with crowds. But in hindsight, I believe they subliminally stirred some up some type of angry panda reaction deep in my generally laid-back guts that would surface later on.
After her performance, I waited around to get Lisa Lampinelli’s autograph. I don’t usually do that kind of thing, but I am completely in awe of the woman. I knew this would cut into the aural pleasure I was about to experience at the hands of the Roman Numerals over on Westport Road, but sacrifices must be made.
As we drove down Southwest Trafficway, my partner for the evening, Killabeas, told me to turn down the cacophonous noise coming from my scratchy-ass speakers. “I know, I know,” I replied quickly, APTBS still blaring even after I turned the dial way to the left. “Wall of sound, don’t you like it?” I don’t remember what she said after that, but I know I saw a shrug and a head shake. The shit was loud, but I didn’t think it was that bad. I actually like that kind of noisy, blurry music. Just ask my co-workers which one of us is always praising the likes of Boo and Boo Too, Baby Birds Don’t Drink Milk and Ad Astra Per Aspera. (Answer: Me).
10 minutes later, I was listening to the end of the Roman Numerals' set and calming my nerves with a Strongbow. I caught two full songs of the very short set (I arrived 24 minutes after they were supposed to have gone on), a new one, and “Rule of V.” I really liked the crunchy guitar on this new song, but alas, it will most likely not be on the release the foursome is slated to begin recording this winter. That record, my fellow Nooms fans, will consist solely of remixes of the 2006 self-titled CD. Boo.
Next up was the Sian Alice Group, a six-piece from the U.K. They started slow. Painfully slow.
The dark-haired beauty fronting the band clutched her stomach and opened her mouth to deliver a sustained Aahhhh. It was very dramatic. “It’s like a junior college theater project,” Killabeas said. Shaking my head, I began to think that this kind of noisy, improvisatory music was basically the Indie version of the jam band phenomenon. Not so cool, once I started to give it more Strongbow-fueled thought. When the set was over, I looked over my notes and saw nothing positive. My pissiness level was beginning to steadily rise.
A Place to Bury Strangers crashed into my thoughts and personal space. Completely instinctively, I shrunk back towards the bar while the mostly male crowd moved to the stage. Right away, I could tell that the recorded version of this band paled in comparison to the live version. Wince.
Much as with Sian Alice Group, the noise began to build and build. I thought that I might have recognized their set opener as the first on their CD, but after trying to concentrate on what I was listening to, I gave up. I was being swallowed.
I quickly realized that giving up cigarettes for my 30 would also mean giving up the sweet decompression space of the smoking patio. At that nerve-racking point in the night, I didn’t trust myself to be close to nicotine, so I headed for the confines of the ladies’ room. Relief never came, though, as the noise poured in and the stall doors vibrated. Adding to the discomfort was the smell of really crappy weed. I couldn’t escape. With pursed lips and yet another Strongbow, I sucked it up and swore that I would put a pair of emergency earplugs in every purse I owned.
Around about that time, the fog machine kicked in spewed into the stuffy air. Had I not been drinking so much, I would have thought this moment was fucking hilarious. I really wanted to like A Place to Bury Strangers. I wanted to be up in the front, inside of the mushroom cloud filled with high frequencies and destroyed guitar strings. But I couldn’t do it. I was coughing too much. This Oliver Ackermann fellow and his Death By Audio guitar pedals were kicking my ass, and instead of laughing, I was cursing this Total Sonic Annihilation moment. And then, the strobe lights kicked in, and it was all over from there. I questioned my tolerance for this type of music and what it takes to produce it. I was even questioning my own musical tastes and what I’ve been listening to since high school. Good music shouldn’t do this to anyone.
Critic’s Notebook:
Personal Bias: I am completely willing to admit that I’m just not cool/progressive enough. But I do enjoy trying to figure out the connections between the bands that get booked on a single night at the Record Bar.
Random Detail: I’m safely saying that Ryan Pope has caught up with the rest of the band and the Roman Numerals sounded really fucking tight.
By the Way: A Place to Bury Strangers rubbed me the way Lisa Lampinelli’s jokes about Sarah Palin’s gaggle of children rubbed the mostly conservative white crowd.
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