Live DC: Holy Fuck / Sons & Daughters / A Place to Bury Strangers @ RNR

March 20, 2008 by Ryan  Send to a Friend

all photos: Ryan Wakeman
all words: Aaron Baird

Hype can be a dangerous thing.
And not just for the blossoming trio of acts I had just gotten tickets to see.
For my elbows and knees.

Excited about the fact that I was going to see the self-proclaimed “loudest band in New York,” I took it upon myself to give their album a run-through to prepare for the inevitable assault my ears were going to brave the following evening. Headphones on, iPod playing, I hopped on my skateboard pumped about my sonic companions for the late-night commute home.

Bam! Couple of minutes later I found myself propped up on my elbows, looking around to make sure no one could a) run me over, or b) laugh at my head-first dive into the concrete. As I lay there, head swirling, finally understanding what it meant to “see stars,”A Place to Bury Strangers’ “To Fix the Gash in your Head” continued to play on my Pod, churning out their dark take on shoegaze records of the past. Was this irony? Was it enlightenment? Bruised and unsure, I vowed to pursue the truth at the show.

Change of plans. Maybe due to that last sip of Dr. Pepper I took before hopping in Ryan’s whip, but more probably caused by the mass influx of tourists dawdling in DC streets, we got to the show at 8:30pm.

Surprise, surprise, the show had started on time, and the sweet sounds of metallic mayhem were seeping out of Rock and Roll Hotel’s front doors.

Fortunately, as we stood in a line which stretched down the block, we got a chance to admire the travel perks which come with respective histories of success: Exhibit A – Northern Gold Custom Coach, obviously the pinnacle of luxury. Exhibit B – Rustic Super 8 Motel van, complete with tan window curtains. Exhibit C – 1970’s era Winnebago-esque Coronado mobile. Who rolls deepest? I think APTBS plays it right, sticking with the more agile and aerodynamic Super 8 tour van.

Now inside, my suspicions were confirmed by the fluctuating pressure on my chest: APTBS are truly and righteously heavy. The smoke-machine produced mist and flashing white strobe immediately put you under the influence of APTBS’ pulsing and ear-crushing atmospherics. Like the mythical roar of some cavernous beast, this shit was gettin’ deep!

It ended all too soon, as we watched the band exit the stage in a hazy shroud of feedback. But for those brief hypnotic moments you could literally feel the energy in and around you. These dudes weren’t playing up some metal shtick; they were bringing a thunderous force of neo-epic proportions. Must see again.

All this was enough to make me wanna shout Holy Fuck!

And what a perfect time to, as the next band fought through the remaining mist to quickly set-up their multitude of effects pedals and 4-channel Behringer mixers.
I’ll admit to being pretty stoked about the prospect of seeing Holy Fuck live.
The hype traveling through the grapevine on these guys was huge. I mean, when Rachel Ray asks you to play at her food party extravaganza in SXSW, you know you’ve hit the big-time. Apparently everyone else got the memo too, seeing how RnR Hotel looked pretty full from the stage.

They didn’t disappoint. What ensued was some kind of electronic jungle rhythmic safari, complete with dueling retro keyboards, drum machines, and anything else these guys could punch, pull, and switch out at any given moment on stage. Although I was looking forward to their kraut-inspired, Liquid Liquid-type percussive electro-minimalism, I didn’t foresee the amount of energy these guys brought to a live setting. The bassist didn’t, or couldn’t stop jumping throughout the performance.

The rotating “multi-instrumental” set-up allowed the two technical headmasters at the forefront of the stage to show off their atmospheric acumen. Starting off with “Super Inuit” and my personal fave “Milkshake,” Holy Fuck incorporated aggressive drumming, bouncy and danceable bass-lines, along with melody-laden synthetic sounds to inspire a packed house to at least bend their knees and nod their heads a bit to the music. I mean, one dude broke out a Frampton-esque voice-box he played through a mini keyboard while the other pulled old film through a vintage projector. Too often, the band’s desire to rock outshone the crowd’s reluctance to make fools of themselves. At least Thom Yorke’s oft-spinned track, the closer “Lovely Allen,” brought out some of the footloose and fancy-free.

Maybe everyone was here for Sons and Daughters, a group I’d admittedly never heard of until the night before. I asked the 40-something year old next to me in a wicked leather jacket and glasses what the deal was with this next band. He replied, “Folk-punk. Plain and simple.” That was all I needed.

Two girls, two guys, from Scotland, and presumably someone’s sons and daughters: I was skeptical. At the start of their set, I felt like I was in some stereotypical Scottish pub where the local punk band played to the regular drunks every Wednesday night. Although bound to be a foot-stomping good time, it was Wednesday night in DC, and I wanted to feel like it was at least Thursday.

But I was wrong. Once warmed up, and after they ironed out a few technical issues in the monitor, this troupe rocked out in a way that reminded me of a celtic-banshee fronted version of X. And who doesn’t love X? Especially with Scottish accents. The 13 song set was highlighted by what very well could have been their signature call-and-response approach to guitar driven punk-folkabilly.
Another highlight was the aloof and attractive bubblegum-blowing bass-playing brunette.
Rock and roll.

 Send to a Friend