This blog comes with an accompaniment in the form of a documentary video that Dead Mothers Collective and I collaborated on. Watch it here:
There isn't much I can say about this show except that it was probably one of my favorite's ever. Every act was a treat so different from one another and every interaction a sweet pleasure I wasn't anticipating. All of it just made me fall even deeper in love with every band and person involved. I am so incredibly grateful to have even been at this show, let alone talk to and film the bands. If any of you are reading this, thank you. Send music, shows, suggestions for artist interviews, and anything ever that you want to talk about or see covered to [ fosterhildingmusic@gmail.com ] or DM me on Instagram.
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| photos of Chat Pile and Agriculture courtesy of Elijah Seger. |
The November asphalt was still hot below the Phoenix sun. We weren't sure if we would be able to get in and film--even after a few emails back and forth with Chat Pile's manager, everything was a bit up in the air. Still, we were able to somehow weasel our way in through the back of The Rebel Lounge and secure special little wristbands because we had cameras and other equipment. Still, the feeling that we were going to be kicked out stayed the whole night and made approaching bands I'd looked up to for years that much harder.
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| photo stolen from Instagram (also Elijah's). |
Amidst the smoke of rising excitement, Rotting Yellow settled into their places on stage. They began in a whisper as the crowd joined. Alexander's slow rumble of bass-imposed guitar sat like a blanket for the sparse tinges of Nate's minimalist drums to lay on top of. Heather's voice tied their dichotomy into oneness with beauty and subtlty--at times reminding me slightly of Emma Ruth Rundle.
I was surprised that Rotting Yellow was opening for such heavy and extreme bands, yet pleasantly so. They were an exercise in patience and passion for the night ahead, as opposed to its lubricant. I got lost in the soft, grounded rhythm of Nate's steady hand, Heather's atmospheric guitar-scapes, and Alexander's deep, rare vocals. Everything was a gradual swell to a final climax--a rugged and slow devolution into noise and energy. If anything, Rotting Yellow demanded the most of their audience, who begged to meet their expectations and appease. Stream Fountains Beneath Hell.
Agriculture both brightened the mood and picked up the pace. Pitted against Daniel's folky strumming were the exceptional blasts of black metal they'd come to be known for. Leah's bass undermined the stage with meaty enormity and a hateful crunch, her vocals a stark contrast in their screeching exclamation of life-affirming prophecy. Richard's sweeping solos burned into Kern's steady blastings like bold black marks on soft wood--crafted masterfully yet painfully fast. Kern himself was a ghost of blurry white, his shirt blown up by a fan behind his chair. He haunted the ecstasy of their produce with consistency and glimpses into heavy variety not often seen in traditional black metal.
That's the thing, though--Agriculture is not a traditional black metal band. Despite the screeching, aching vocals, constant blast beats, and quick, unforgiving tremolo picking, they are a manifestation of joy and true freedom. They don't subscribe to the despairing depths of black metal, and instead embrace the heights of emotion--every emotion, through the heights and melodic nuances of their music. Daniel claims that Bob Dylan is to thank for their "melodic sensibility," but I believe it's derived from the sincerity of their mission and complete commitment to it. I LOVE THE SPIRITUAL SOUND OF ECSTATIC BLACK METAL BY THE BAND AGRICULTURE. Stream Living is Easy.
What do I even say about Chat Pile? My off-and-on obsession and car crash soundtrack, they're unlike any band I've seen. Their set was also the first I've ever seen during which I could confidently say I knew every lyric. Raygun's shuffling, growling attack of both humorous and homicidal lyricism (Rainbow Meat vs. Dallas Beltway respectfully... or the entirety of grimace_smoking_weed.jpeg) was hypnotic over the surgeon-precision of Ron's drums that rivaled their studio sound--even without their signature reverb.
Stin's led-foot bass rattled the room with a hateful presence--crunchy, enormous, and pointed against Luther's creamy, disgustingly heavy guitars. They never once went out of sync with one another. Witnessing their pounding, screaming hearts firsthand gave me a newfound appreciation for Chat Pile. There was not a single song in their massive setlist that wasn't hard-hitting and incredible live. One new song, Funny Man (I'm not sure if this is the actual name, but that's what the internet says), burned a ghostly rhythm into my ears that still refuses to leave--the coming sound of Chat Pile is deranged and unforgiving. Stream Brothers in Christ.
I'll always be floored by this night. I've been listening back through every song obsessively and I don't think they'll ever get old. This was a bit of a rushed blog, so I apologize if the quality wasn't there. Nyle and I have some very cool things coming up in Dead Mothers Collective, though, so stay watching. Keep going to shows, documenting, playing, everything in between. You know. Thank you for reading.
-Foster
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