The Sunn O))) also rises

I am fully aware what that the following paragraphs you are about to read sound hyperbolic, foolish, and/or just plain wrong.

But Sunn O))) (from now on, Sunn because I’m lazy) was, by far, the most unique live experience I have ever had. When I am old and grey, my memory fading, there is no chance I will forget even one aspect of what I saw that night.

I am no Faulkner or Hemingway, and even if I were, the English language does not have words to properly describe what transpired 9/19 at AS220 in Providence, RI. I was hypnotized, mesmerized, flabbergasted, horrified, stunned, and amazed all at once. If you don’t feel like reading why, let me summarize: if you, in even the most minor way, love music, go see Sunn. Do it. Pay the $15 and drive an hour and a half. Make a friend go with you. You don’t even have to have heard one song by them. Just go. You will not regret it.

Now, one man’s feeble attempt to encapsulate just what it was like.

As my friend and I turned the corner on Empire Street a good two hours before the scheduled start time, we heard it: a fuzzed out, booming, feedback-filled note that sounded like some sort of primordial creature’s roar. We were at least a half block away from gallery/restaurant/venue AS220 and we heard the sound check. At that very moment I knew much of the rumors about Sunn were true.

Sunn is a doom metal band—a genre they probably didn’t invent, but sure as hell carry the flag for. They can be defined in a few words. Heavy. Loud. Slow. This is not the home of blast beats and face-melting guitar riffs. This is the home of one note stretched to the point of numbness, of bass so heavy you can feel them in your stomach and of songs longer than some films.

The band’s reputation precedes them. Stories of fleeing concertgoers, unprepared for what was unleashed upon them, are not uncommon. Loosened bowels and stomach contents from the sheer sonic weight coming out of dozens of imposing amps, was something I fully expected. And the black cowls, heavy fog, and minimal lighting creating a nightmarish vision.

To my knowledge, no one puked or fled the scene in terror on this Saturday night. But what did happen is nearly as strange. As the plodding, cavernous sounds of Sunn’s Monolith’s and Dimensions filled the small venue, everyone stood motionless. Unlike most shows, earplugs were standard issue. The twenty or so amps, along with the band’s rep, caused everyone to wear protection. The earplugs, along with the bled together nature of Sunn’s music, had a strange isolating effect on everyone present. You were relegated to your own head and whatever sounds Sunn decided to subject you to. No talking (no one could hear you if you tried), no dancing (difficult without a drum beat), nary a fist pump in sight (your arms were too heavy).

This was a wholly unique experience for me. No matter who it was, I had always seen some sort of movement during concerts. Not so here. One well-placed push would have knocked over the entire crowd, that’s how paralyzed we all were. The volume of the music—the waves of sound actually hitting you—made your clothes vibrate. For the vast majority of the show I stood with my arms at my sides just absorbing the wall of sound. There were moments where I had to shake myself in an effort to snap out of this trance Sunn had created.

And then, like something out of a Hitchock movie, Sunn decided to really mess everyone’s night up. As had happened a couple times earlier, guest vocalist of the night Attila Csihar made himself scare while the other members played on. In what seemed like an instant something appeared on stage. It was Csihar, but instead of his cowl, he was adorned in a full-body burlap sack, complete with a crown of sticks and an arm covered in bark. The scream he unleashed as his faceless visage scanned the crowd was unearthly.

For at least thirty seconds I was legitimately scared of what I was seeing. This also marked the only time my friend and I acknowledged each other during the show, as he turned to me, mouth agape and eyes wide open. We were lulled into such a stupor that this costume, this stark change in what we thought we were beginning to understand, was horrible.

Just as the shock of the tree monster had worn off, the show was over, the band finally lifting the veil and accepting applause. There was no encore (there never is), nor did there need to be. We were all spent.

The combination of a cold New England night, it being past midnight, and my body readjusting to not being bombarded with sound, stepping outside was like jumping into a lake in January. “If a car hit me,” I remarked as we crossed the street, “I don’t even think I would feel it.”

As I started the two-hour drive back to Cape Cod at 1 a.m., I knew it was just what I needed. The lonely highway and silence allowed me to process what had just gone on. I probably would have failed a field sobriety test had I been pulled over.

If that doesn’t make you want to see Sunn O))), I don’t know what will.

Don't dream, it's over

Before seeing Animal Collective for my third time last Thursday, I remember thinking how awesome it would be to follow them on tour, Almost Famous-style. I imagined having all these weird conversations with the band, dropping acid or getting drunk with them (whatever they do) documenting it all and having it run in Rolling Stone (or whatever magazine people read). It would have been totally rad.

But then a funny thing happened.

I've only had one or two moments that really broke my heart regarding music. I remember being really bummed out when Death From Above 1979 broke up after one album and one EP -- although I begrudgingly admit MSTRKRFT are actually pretty good -- but that's pretty much it. I don't really remember Kurt Cobain dying, but Nirvana was big for me, so I was probably sad.

But after seeing Animal Collective on tour supporting their amazing Merriweather Post Pavilion, something just wasn't right.

I can recall many a conversation revolving around Animal Collective being the best live band I'd ever seen or the only band I would actually want to follow on tour. Hyperbole like that. But it was all genuine. I really did feel they were our generation's Grateful Dead or Pink Floyd. A band so weird, so brilliant, so trippy -- that seeing them was an experience that seemed like it would never stop feeling fresh. And I don't even smoke weed.

This may all sound weird to anyone who doesn't love Animal Collective, but they are mine (and many, many others) favorite band at the moment, and easily one of the most important acts of the past five years or so. And one of the hardest things in life is admitting something you love isn't so great anymore.

I am afraid Animal Collective -- live, at the very least -- has reached that point.


Maybe it was the fact that I felt old for one of the first times in my young life. Yeah I'm only 23, and everyone over 30 is telling me to die in a fire, but I also just graduated college, have a job (not a "career") I am not a huge fan of, am seeing a lot of my friends move further away, living at home again and have no money. Life is weird for the college graduate. You aren't a partying college dude anymore. You aren't a care-free high schooler anymore. You're an adult. But you still like going to concerts, drinking yourself silly, playing video games, staying up late watching pointless TV and doing all the other dumb shit young people do.

But the thing is, everyone who between the ages of 16-20 likes doing all that too. And I swear, the average age of the kids at the House of Blues in Boston that night was 16. Seventeen at the most. It was very odd. It made me think, "Why am I here? Should I be going to see Hall and Oates (the answer, of course, is yes) or something?"

And as Animal Collective went through a particularly unremarkable rendition of "My Girls" -- probably my favorite song of 2009 so far -- I knew seeing them would never be what it used to be. And that sucked.

A certain Satan Manning remarked that Animal Collective are driving the motorcycle up to the ramp, ready to jump the shark. They haven't quite yet, but it's coming. And this is going to sound like indie kid douchebaggery, but fuck, that sucks. I don't want to see my band become what hundreds and hundreds of other bands have become.

I guess I can can chalk it up to this being the third time I've seen them. The first two were great, unforgettable. But this performance was completely forgettable. Not good, not bad. When I go to write my book of all the concerts I saw and what happened (with somewhere between 50-75 percent of the facts made up), this Animal Collective show will not get a chapter. Or maybe it will. I'll call it "The Day the Music Died" or something dramatic like that.

Animal Collective are still a great band. Merriweather Post Pavilion is still a great album. Hell, I will probably see them the next time they come around.

But if it's anything like this night, I have no idea how I'll feel. Probably really, really old.