Hello, everynyan. And welcome back, again. And again. BACK to the bread and butter... Send music shit to my email [ fosterhildingmusic@gmail.com ] or DM me on Instagram.
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| photos courtesy of Nathan. |
I went into this one 90% blind, having only seen one of the bands live and having only heard of one other. It was the perfect introduction to every grinding expanse of anxious, unsettling noise against the grain of any power. Oh yeah, guys. Awesome stuff. Props to Daphne for this sick bill.
Dying Earth broke through like a gasp of gut-punch recovery, Steven's toms fucked loud and galloping into breakdowns like war drums set upon his machine gun kicks, his china paper thin and stabbing. Tahj's bass crunched at its edges, filling the space between Alex's whining feedback and indecisive chugs, and Dominic's all-too-familiar, rantingly diverse screams like ripping flesh. In a landscape of fast and endless, they made every repeating riff lose any repetition in their heaviness. Caged ogres in their cracking, slow breakdowns.
Growing in infamy and renown, Sugriva stole the show immediately. Between Sam's pinch harmonic masturbation and Matt's ridiculous precision, china sizzling upon every rhythm discontent to stay still, Nick blew into the mic like a breathalyzer with intense ferocity and these legendary low howls--speed only an incalculable variable in their forever varying, drowsy hardcore. Sam's guitar covers so much space its absurd--and beneath every tritone chug, Matt switched hands and triple kicked with the will to subvert impossibility. Slippery in their speed, draggingly slow, they're a step ladder breaking between feedback screams and a low swell of Nick's growls.
Donned, they did, their 8-string and black paint, which, I have to admit, soured my first impressions of Koinophobia. Oh, but did they ever deliver. Regan shouted between Daughters-esque preaching and pig squeal screams, taunting for two-steppers to dare. Slower and slower, Bonham's bell-diddling and muffled snare rattlings melted into all of Hunter's Gojira pinches and 90s-worship chugs with, what is undeniably, a modern intensity. Stream Wrapped In Plastic.
Amongst the trio warriors and absentee bassists, LENSE boasted a packed and totally full lineup, easily the loudest yet. Ana's crucifying elephant bass, Andres and Demietri's bending bars of solid iron within chugs and pinched-nerve feedback, Carcass's gloved hands in preparation for cymbal slaughter, knowing not to leave any evidence of the attack behind, Santo's gut chants and screams dwarfed by the noise that growled into the atmosphere around him--they all synced to succumb to their own sonic waste. Like panic through a cracked windshield, their emo-craving chords broke through in the subtler moments, descending a swallowing tunnel. Impossible fuzz. Endless dissonance. Overdriven and lustful to consume. Stream Demolition.
VITIL swung, nailing the hammer and bending it with egregious strength. Joe's 5-string bass pulsed and cracked with distortion--his other half in rhythm, Brayden, like a giant insect complete with spine-legged smashing, strength completely disproportionate to size. Sloan's guitars throbbed with every attack and exacting vibration. Fragile, high-strung rhythms turned throbbing forces of stone-faced punk nature. Logan grunts and wails upon these disasters of breakneck beating. They master accenting, harmonics screaming in call and response between torn screams, strings bent to the floor with beatdown sensibility. Stream West Valley Hardcore.
I was ready to go home by the time Punctured surprised the room in thin riffed power chords and constant thudding punk. Jimmy's guitar shown through turtle shoulders and spiraled cuts of chunky punk shit, Josh's double kick suffering against the squeaking feedback, slowed and hallowed through caterpillar chugging. Bryson screamed in agonized splashes against doom-pandering chug descents. Constant and guttural.
Great show. That's all I gotta say. Go to more, yourself. Listen. Thanks.
-Foster
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