Live Review: Boris, 21st April 2008


Manchester Ruby Lounge. Support: Growing

This was my first time in the Ruby Lounge, and its atmosphere was most conducive to a rock gig. It seems quite new, not yet soiled to the point of a Bar Phono (Leeds) or the old Rio (Bradford). The smoky atmosphere was simulated; probably best not to wonder what carcinogens were still worming their way into my lungs. I made my way through the atmosphere to my most pressing concern of the time: the merch stall.

See, Boris is a band known not just for their unabashed fecundity, but for the scarcity of a lot of their releases. 2008 saw release of the first Boris-only studio album since Pink in November 2005; named Smile, its Japanese vinyl run was rumoured to be limited to just 500 copies. Soon after release, copies were up on eBay for one hundred pounds or more. A small amount of research, however, revealed the band had ring-fenced a number of copies to be sold on the European tour this spring.

So it was with this foremost in my mind that I bought my ticket for this particular gig: that Boris were phenomenal on the two previous occasions I had seen them was icing on the cake. Tense were the hours building up to the concert – I had to get that record. But what if I arrived at the gig too late? What if the copies had in fact sold out before the Japanese rock ‘n’ roll behemoth even reached the Grey City? These were concerns that preyed on my hi fi-listening mind.

Stopping off at the rather pleasant Abode Hotel café/bar beforehand for tasty ham and brie panini and rather a eak strawberry smoothie, my associate and I marched on to the Lounge in time for the advertised half-past-seven doors-opening. As is usually the case, the doors remained shut for another half-hour, so I got to talking with a fellow Boris fan. Turned out his friend was on the inside, and had the skinny on merch.

When said friend emerged I grilled him about vinyl availability. ‘There’s no vinyl at all, he responded grimly. While disappointed, I was relieved as the weight of limited edition vinyl packs left my weary shoulders. The record was gone, but I was now free to enjoy the gig unencumbered. So we return to the designer murk of the Ruby Lounge. Bonus points were awarded pre-live sets for the comfy leather seating amenities.

At some point the opening act, Growing, started playing. While not a particularly short figure, I found it exceedingly difficult to see the band as they played; perhaps the stage is close to non-existent. Not that I was missing much. The band had been talked up outside the venue as ‘really droney’, the context of which suggested drone = good. Historically I would have been inclined to agree, but we are at such a state of ‘me too’-ism now that I dreaded hearing this Growing. And they were not especially good. Nor even merely good.

It was a case of your usual guitar riff repeats for what feels like an eternity while someone fannies about with apparently ‘experimental’ noises. At times it was promising, with the riffs’ repetition working in Gestalt and bringing the listener up with the spiralling music. It just never led anywhere; on and on it went into cul de sac and dark alley, to the point where it seemed not even the band had the faintest idea where they were going. Where is Jake’s Way? Or is it Jack’s Way? We’ve been driving for hours, let’s just turn round and go home.

On the way the audience was subjected to periods of sub-Isis, movements of sub-Pelican (yes, such a dread thing exists). There were times when it sounded for all the world as though the guitarist was playing for the first time while an early Orb record played in he background. This aesthetic may have been new to the assembly of beards and spectacles, who in all likelihood had never heard experimental heavy metal before about 2003, when the style mags, like Icarus, flew too close to the sunnO))), but this was naked-emperor stuff to anyone with half a brain.

At some point Growing ended, and the headliners were able to take to the stage. Again, not much was visible from my (disad)vantage point, other than occasionally Takeshi’s head. But that was of minimal concern when the sound produced by the power trio rang through loud and clear. It was with heavy heart that I had to leave the venue before the set had finished in order to catch a train, but most of the set was an experience to be savoured.

As one might well have expected (though you never really know what a set will contain when the performer has so many releases from which to choose), the show drew heavily from the recent Smile opus. The set began with what, if we’re really being honest, was essentially a blues rock ballad. I got to thinking about what Reynolds had theories about the band being a tourist in metal, picking and choosing what suited them (I believe he drew parallel with Squarepusher in the world of electronic music). I can’t go for that, though; they have been so good for so long, and play with such passion and energy, that it’s hard not to take them at face value. While they were paying a blues rock ballad at that time, it was so loud and so overwhelming that details of aesthetic hardly mattered a jot.

They tore through a fantastic rendition of ‘メッセージ’ (I think that’s ‘Message’ on the American release), with its ‘Dog Day Sunrise’ melody in the verse and thumping, tribal rhythm. We also got, though not in the strict album order, ‘BUZZ-IN’ and ‘となりのサターン’ (‘My Neighbour Satan’), the highlight of the record. A fabulous song, it enters rather timidly, with chiming stop start melody just bobbing on the surface of the slightly murky waters of the rest of the arrangement.

The juxtaposition is strangely serene, the kind of blissful rock few others than Boris seem to excel at. Then, suddenly, Atsuo batters the toms in staccato and we get drawn into a maelstrom of psychedelic rock freakout. Another ridiculously solid drum fill signals the end of that section and the song, like in musical chairs, returns to its placid stillness. Not quite as unbelievable as Pink’s ‘決別’ (‘Farewell’), it is nevertheless something to be cherished.

There were some other songs; some off Pink (that one I forget the name of, but a decently-sized garage rock tune punctuated by ‘bombombom… BOMBOMBOM!’ riffs) and some I didn’t quite recognise. All were magnificent in the energy the band poured from the stage into our waiting ears. But, like too many gigs I have attended in recent years, the audience was totally physically unreceptive. Were it not for the applause at the end of each song, an observer would be forgiven for thinking they weren’t enjoying it. Very little in the way of dancing, or even head-bobbing. Perhaps attendance at such a cool gig was sufficient effort on their part; enthusiasm took a back seat to being seen by fellow bearded wonders.

It got me thinking. This kind of gig doesn’t really draw the mosh pit types. It seems the meek have inherited the dance floor and there is no way they are going to cave in to the tradition of the heavy metal jocks. It’s like when Zack and Slater were absent from periods of Saved by the Bell, and Screech got to order his own speccy cronies around. It’s Revenge of the Nerds, but with smoke machines and Orange amps.

Whatever the cause of this non-dance inertia, it stank. It was a visible lack of respect for the band their presence ostented to support, as well as providing obstacle for those who did want to dance to music on a night out (perish the thought!). Regardless, the band was awesome as per usual. And while they didn’t play favourites such as ‘Dyna-Soar’, ‘Farewell’ or ‘Ganbou-Ki’ while I was there, what they did play was just the ticket. And I got my record – and got it home in one piece.

POSTSCRIPT: Of course the song in question was ‘Pink’.

SND’s New Album!*



4,5,6
SND, 3LP

Sheffield duo SND broke a years-long silence the other week to release a triple disc album of a truly minimal pedigree (history with Mille Plateaux, plain card sleeve), with nomenclature to match the packaging. Its 4,5,6 refers to the names of the discs herein; the pressing, too, held true to form. Just as suddenly as it was released into the wild it became scarce. Hopefully not too many copies were snapped up by soulless profiteers, as this 300-copy run deserves to be heard by music fans who should have to hand over neither arm nor leg to do so.

Not being overly familiar with SND’s history, the aural journey was one of surprise and bliss. While much was made of UK Garage and Timbaland references by e-merchant blurb, the initial key reference point for this listener was Autechre. Admittedly, many lazy comparisons are made with Messrs Booth and Brown (Kid A), but there is a shared tendency here of musical structures formed from concrete-hard beats through which slim melodic saplings strive to break.

Rather than the ostensibly technologically-motivated work of Autechre, SND’s primary concern seems to be the dancefloor, though certainly not that of your local Flares. The beats on this trio of discs evolve restlessly, but the rhythm is a constant source of propulsion. At many points new, lead, beats enter the mix to both complement and counter the existing ones. The aforementioned melodies snake their routes through these mazes from time to time, though often the percussion is of amply varying timbre to constitute melody in itself.

The record opens with robo-tintinnabulation; fallen angels shredding on harps made of radiators and spanners. It actually reminds of Björk’s ‘Frosti’, albeit having left her Vespertine ice cave and discovered the bright lights of the city. Repetition is the name of the game; music gets time to develop and trance out the listener. There is obviously variety, notably in the shorter, noisier, interludes but the grand narrative suggests a very Steel City sense of beauty within dance music. Essential, if you can find it.

* Not this one, Dave.

ButH in 300 Words!

Just sticking some FACT stuff up as and when I do it.


Board up the House
Lovepump United, 2LP

Electro-Grindcore monsters Genghis Tron return with their second full-length album. But is it a case of ‘one was enough’ (a la Andrew W.K.), or are the Tron embarking on a journey of constant improvement?

There is definitely more melody here, but not at the expense of heaviness or quality. This record is all about varying shades and dynamics, rather than the binary quiet/loud, synth/organism of the intentionally cold-technological Dead Mountain Mouth; making that album seem rather limited in hindsight.

A boldly chiming electronic melody opens, contrasting greatly with the almost apologetic electronic tones the band used previously (‘we’ll get you to the moshing in due course’, they sighed, like a musical Test Card). While the effect is similar to brash ravesploitation warriors Captain Ahab, the overall aesthetic is almost innocent, like Perrey-Kingsley/Plone. The variety comes not just between rock-melody and -thrash, but the dark Noisecore grooves and sunny-(d)light synth tones.

The still-screaming vocals are all well and visceral, but they render unintelligible some poignant lyrics, a dynamic facet adding depth only for those bothered to read. The titles hint (‘Things Don’t Look Good’, ‘Colony Collapse’), but there is a sadness in Mookie’s words that contrasts with both metal aggression and vibrant electro-melody; are these gleaming musical structures merely façade, the bravely smiling face while Tron cries inside? While we’re warned ‘You’ll come to fear / Each day / Each night’, this is a refreshingly well-written Dystopia.

The one song with relatively optimistic denouement (in the Oldboy sense) is ‘Relief’. An epic housed on its own disc, its relatively languid pace runs in opposition to the hyperspeed ravings of what preceded. And it’s fantastic for it. This ‘new’ sound might not last, but at least it’ll die contented: ’If we’re broke / It’s the right time / All will be forgotten / All will be well’.

Joe Calzaghe vs. Bernard Hopkins

I won’t pretend to know much about boxing, or even that I’m particularly a big fan of the sport. However, I like it enough to watch certain US matches live, so that’s something. Also, I want to get more into it. I watched Amir Khan vs. Some Dude, as well as Antonio Tarver vs. Clinton Woods (the latter the day after it happened, as I wasn’t that bothered about it, and it was low enough on the Sports Importance Hierarchy that no news report I saw or heard proferred the result).

So it was that I decided to have a nap at half-nine so I could rise for this. It transpired I was slightly over-careful, as I set my alarm for two. Cue Audley Harrison and some idiot having a fight as though trapped in amber. It was evidently more painful for me than either of them, though thankfully over in the fifth, when Harrison landed two body shots after he was hit in the face and decided he didn’t like it. Can David Haye not just put on some weight and kill him now?

The main event was a weird one, and a lot closer than the national anthems contest. ‘Ray J’ or whatever the dummy was called is a shit singer. Really bad. He opted to softly sing/falsetto ‘The Star Spangled Banner’, rather than blast it, which was probably wise but a coward’s way out. I am no fan of Tom Jones, nor a patriot. Nor Welsh, for that matter, but Jones killed him. I loved the fumbly beginning (foreshadowing?!), with the ‘are we on?’ professionalism too. Still, he ended up blasting it out and showing that he still has a pair of pipes on him. He remains unforgiven for butchering ‘Kiss’, mind.

And so the match started, though just before that a topless, fight-ready Calzaghe embraced Jones, who was blatantly worried sweat would rub onto his pricey suit. I was really scared when the first round knockdown happened. Joe looked shaken, and easily picked off; I figured we were in for a long night. And we were.

The match wore on and, while Calzaghe put more of a stamp on it, he was never truly comfortable. Hopkins is a crafty veteran, to say the least, and was definitely the ring general here. Jones had been interviewed pre-fight, and gave some defaut answer about Joe ‘having to fight his own fight, and he can’t let Hopkins fight his fight’. I thought he was bullshitting, and maybe he was, but the advice was very apt in hindsight. Calzaghe tried his best to eact his new strategy of punching less, making it count, and not getting drawn into a brawl, but he just culdn’t pull it off to a satisfactory level.

Every time Joe attempted to jab and move, he was sucked into a dirty clinch by the senior fighter. Try as he might to extricate him from the situation cleanly, there would always be that nudge with the head, that drag on the arms that, over the course of twelve rounds, would surely fatigue. And Hopkins was a dirty fighter. Ever the carny, he sold two low blows like grim death, though only one was judged to have occurred according to the referee.

But somehow the Welshman managed it. He certainly had the better of later rounds, with Hopkins tiring and stooging for all he was worth; Calzaghe plugged on in gritty determination with the knowledge that he had definitely started the fight on the back-foot. And eventually the fight ended!

I was surprised at the result, as I thought the bout had been sufficiently closely contested that American judges would have sided with ‘Nard. I guess they opted for the bloke who was showing more aggression, more of a will to have a clean fight (and bum people) and who was actually moving forward (as the commentators saw fit to tell us every few seconds). To be fair, Calzaghe was landing more of the clean punches, even if he was massively down from his usual five million punches-per-round hit rate. Joe was lucky. Very lucky. That said, Hopkins is a sore loser, as he claimed he schooled his younger opponent in boxing. He schooled him in something, for sure: how to be the boxing equivalent of Ric Flair in his stooging, over-selling, dirty fighting and admittedly rather good post-fight interview.