Here we go, another blog. Okay. This one's a little special. As you all know if you've been reading lately, Dead Mothers Collective and friends came out to LA to see, film, and document an avant-garde show. At first we were drawn in by the inclusion of Alex and Sylvie's solo projects, both of Sprain fame, but we soon found ourselves equally awed by the sweetness of everyone involved, their heartfelt music, constantly-kind words, and the accepting, cozy venue. I have a few pictures from this show, but many will be stolen from the artists themselves. We also made a documentary for the night in which we interviewed every artist, watch that below. Send your music shits to [ fosterhildingmusic@gmail.com ] or DM me on Instagram.
My stomach was full of soggy scrambled eggs and possibly unsafe meat, both scarfed down hastily in chinatown with a warm can of Sprite and a headache. Non Plus Ultra hid behind the buildings and trains like the city's own un-chinked gem, protected by known secrecy. Without knowing anyone outside of a few shared follows and messages online, we shuffled between a lingering corner and the dark bathroom in turns until the show began.
 |
| cool photos courtesy of Elijah Seger. |
Alex took the stage first under the Big Brown Cow moniker. I had scrubbed the vast corners of the internet for recordings, videos, or anything I could find for this project beforehand and only found one. It felt like we were the solemn few let into a world hidden just beneath the surface, outside of the grandiosity of Alex's post-rock roots. In opposition to Sprain, Big Brown Cow turns the knife on itself and, in doing so, cuts out the ugliest parts of all of us--the parts that we refuse to see. Instead of hiding them, Alex shoves them down our throat with force, making sure they never go unnoticed or unspoken again.
His set, the longest of the night, began with a pulsing pedal of discordant keyboard, its tinny keys leaving a pang in your ear and making room for his explosive vocals. Singing, whispering, demanding, whimpering, and commiserating, Alex's vocals are elastic and inseparable from the near-unbearable content of the lyrics themselves. As he switched from keyboard to acoustic guitar, his lyrics moved from sexual abuse to murder, to love, and to a disjointed acceptance. Every moment was scarring and unexpected, and the word "Daniel" will be forever etched into my mind as a sonic petroglyph of Big Brown Cow.
Sad Gods took the stage next with a buffet of noise-making toys and devices, each with an ambiguous purpose and ominous look, like a torturer's rolled out sheet of tools and choices. Before I knew it had begun, a wash of noise bled into the room, mixed with taped samples of Johnny's daughter saying something just barely unintelligible beneath the soft ambience that rose above it. In my four-hours-of-sleep+seven-hour-drive mind, it almost lulled me to sleep before Johnny's echoing and cackling laughter forced its way into the mesh of noise, guiding every hypnotized mind into focus.
His sounds were comforting in a way they shouldn't be, like twisted "new age" with a noisy edge that peaked between its own calm boarders. I'm rarely ever so incredibly focused on live music, yet Johnny guided me there with his array of sonic weapons, some seemingly homemade and contorted with unsettled pain. My favorite moment by far would have to be when Johnny set two different-sized kitchen bowls on the ground, both with rubber balls rolling in them, and gripped a 57 in one hand, letting each of them sing from the ground into the sky and into his aching soundscapes. Stream creature: DONKEY.
 |
| other photos courtesy of the artists... or stolen from their Instagram. |
I could feel my energy being completely drained from me, between the lack of sleep, drive, and straining music that kept me at alert in every moment (a good thing, by the way), I was exhausted. My camera hand ached with stiffness and hatred for the body it was connected to. Rest easy, arm, and stay steadfast.
From Portland on his mini tour of this California wasteland, August took the stage next with a song that was once Empathy by Swans, and now entirely his own in a swirl of noise and heartached crooning that slips out of the Gira-esque demands and into a low, emotional snarl. The proximity of his buzzing setup to his microphone shocked his lips as he sang, springing his head back in frustration as it did. It was necessary, though, as he switched between feedbacking guitar and the little looping machines that fueled the ambience behind his every move.
August swapped between the soft strumming of low guitar to harsh feedback that filled the room like a killing scream without letting up. Yet, every sound felt like relief and release. Whether soft or loud, the tension built between each musical handshake begged for change in every moment, which he controlled masterfully. Stream Heaven's Gate.
Apesma closed the night in an eruption of vibrating noise cut off by Sylvie asking if anyone had seen her bottle of wine. It in a swell of atonal pain with her violin bow as it scraped nastily against the sparking strings of her dry guitar. Her vocals ached in a tone unfamiliar, propped between sharp guitar that allowed for no comfort, only a building tension that never let up. It's clear that she is a master of noise without compare, her cracking voice leaving only room for our full silence and attention.
Hints of her sun-explosion past snuck into the washes of noise right between pull-off-drenched, mathy riffs. Despite the minimal setup, she still managed to fill the tall ceilings with her single guitar and amp, a cacophony of noise led by a voice pained with dread and demanding over the distance between its tongue and every unprepared ear. Her final cooing lullaby and swelling guitar that devolved into a mess of noise sprinkled sand into our eyes as we drifted further from LA and closer to sleep.
I am incredibly honored to have been here. It feels like such a special experience to have shared with all of these incredibly talented people, and I would make the drive again in a heartbeat. Next time, I may be pickier about dinner. Thank you all for reading. Keeping doing the thing.
-Foster
Comments
Post a Comment