So, I went and saw the Secret Machines at Webster Hall last night. I'd seen them once before, a couple of years back opening for Interpol, which -- in retrospect -- was kinda like seeing Blue Cheer open for the Archies. I remember really digging their stentorian sound (pairing the levee-breaking rhythm section of Zeppelin with the cinematic expanse of Live at Pompeii-era Pink Floyd), but their debut e.p., September 000 -- while quite good -- didn't match the sensory-engulfing whallop of their live show. A couple of months later came their major label debut, Now Here is Nowhere, which basically became my favorite new release of 2004 (next to maybe the comparitvely rinkydink retrophilia of the Futureheads). But, being prone to weighty, eighteen-minute songs, the album really wasn't one that lent itself to repeated airrings (especially not with an infant in the house), so I kinda filed it away and forgot about it.
My nextdoor neighbors went onto see them on the tour for that record and raved about their new live show. Evidently, the band -- with the aid of major label financial muscle -- had beefed up their onstage aesthetic. When I'd see them back in 2002, their spartan stage set-up consisted of three huge floodlights (one behind each player) aimed *directly* at crowd eye-level, appending a blinding visual element to match their deafening sound. Now, the band employs a lighting rig comparable to vintage Genesis (again, more prog-homage), that, while more colorful and sophisticated, still puts the emphasis on retina-immolating brightness. In any case, when we heard that they were comin' back, I decided I should go check'em out again.
So, last night I did..with incongruous opening acts, Anton Newcombe (of the Brian Jonestown Massacre, who I missed) and Annie from Norway (basically a liteweight new millenial Kim Wilde). While they haven't really embraced anything new, the `Machines put in another whiplash-inducing performance. The sheer brunt of sound feels comparable to being shot in the sternum with a Howtizer. Though again prone to meandering tunes that seem to go on interminably, when they launched into certain tracks (notably "First Wave Intact" and "Nohwere Again"), it was sheer brain-nullifying euphoria. Spotted Bowie headbanging up in the v.i.p. balcony (we spent the rest of the evening looking up and pointing --- and he eventually smiled and pointed back. Ha.) The band proceeded to blow a new part in my hair and gaping hole in the back of the place.
Still on a high from last night, I tracked the Now Here is Nowhere album on my way to work today on my iPod, and it somehow fittingly sucked all the power out of the thing by the climax of the final track (I swear it was fully charged when I left). Yeah, maybe they're hairy Texan heshers who need to wash more often, but when they're *on*, their vast, lumbering music sounds like limbed glaciers doing battle. Going deaf never felt so seizmic.
In other words, they rocked.
*Quick Addendum*: It would be remiss of me not point out, at this stage, that I did not, in fact, take the truly amazing photograph at the top of this post. Nor, for that matter, was said photo taken this past Thursday evening (although it does perfectly capture the essence of the event). I found this striking image via Googling. The photograph was taken by one James Coglan, a student at Oxford University in the UK. Visit his website by clicking here.
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