Marcus Schmickler/Peter Rehberg: Nothing I haven't heard from either of them, but that doesn't mean it didn't kick ass. Reversing the order of things, they played from the soundboard area with the stage lights on the audience. Freed everybody up to move around. It was a blast to watch the faces of people reacting to the digital ripping. A great place to start the evening.
Conrad Schnitzler's Con-Cert: If thunder was a distant, beautiful room moving towards you with you in it, this is what it would feel like to feel your way around it's edges. Made me think of the following Germans: early Tangerine Dream, early and late Klaus Schulze, Elmar Schulte, and Asmus Tietchens. Yet, it didn't sound like any of them. A masterful abuse/finessing of the ping . . . low, high, and middle. I haven't mentioned my confusion as to who was actually playing here, but I think I've figured it out. Keith Fullerton Whitman was at the controls, the conduit through which Schnitzler flowed. Nice torch.
Jazzfinger: Like a Jim Dandy rap, Jazzfinger was relentless and filthy. The amp as instrument. The feedback as lord. Our bodies for fodder. Following their machines, the set felt completely organic and de-composed. Jazzfinger. They are mutants. Of this here monster. Cue Pat Daugherty. Blistering.
Cold Cave: Was most looking forward to this band, and they did not disappoint. And when I say that I mean that they left me wanting more just like they do with all their 12"s, 7"s, and cassettes. A distant sleaze is at the base of their songs, and on top, well, that's a distant sleaze too, but it's a really catchy distant sleaze. Unabashed rhythm guitar nods to Bernard Sumner, cold/warm synth and vocal lines, straight-line rhythms. Totally the shit. And never enough.
Emeralds: Better every time I see them, and every time I see them I say to myself, "Man. It can't get any better than this." A blinding wall of fuzzed and extended power chords opened the gate for the crowd, and although the chords receded the feeling of things being blown wide open didn't. Aggressive and oh-shit-the-tectonic-plates-are-shifting drones morphed into cosmick sequencer and guitar runs that folded back into themselves while at the same time moving forward. Amazing journey.
Black Pus: If Buckethead was a shrieking bedroom Black Metaller, but instead of being a hyper-technically proficient guitarist he was an overexcitable drummer who worshipped Crank Sturgeon this is what it would sound and look like. Fuck yeah! Thoroughly and completely enjoyable. I mean, EVERYBODY loved this guy. What a whackjob. And yes. That was a pun.
Prurient/Kevin Drumm: Drumm held the rope while Prurient burrowed deep into the red body. Galvanizing. Gone.
No Fun Fest 2009, Night 1.
No Fun Fest 2009, Night 2.
1 comment:
It sure as heck looked like Keith Fullerton Whitman, now that you mention it. Too bad I didn't ask the dude his name since he had a merch table set up downstairs...
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