Concert Review: Holy Fuck
Holy Fuck, with A Place to Bury Strangers and Bald Eagle
Saturday, March 8
The Record Bar
By ANDREW MILLER
Photos by Scott Spychalski
“Is this Holy Fuck yet?” a recent arrival asked fellow concertgoers midway through opening band Bald Eagle’s set. This inquiry communicated that 1) The questioner came exclusively to see the headlining act, and 2) He had no idea what they looked or sounded like. It was a fitting display of mystery fandom on a night populated by atypical Record Bar attendees, such as the gathering of gesticulating dudes rocking the jeans-with-a-blazer look. Not that there’s anything wrong with this prep-set invasion – these guys danced more enthusiastically and frequently than the venue’s regulars – but it’s worth wondering how this demographic learned about the concert. It’s not as if local radio stations were able to promote the show, for fear of intoning the band’s moniker.
Indie-rock tourists aside, many Holy Fuck ticket-buyers had seen Battles at the Record Bar in 2007, and had reason to expect another memorable beat-driven, largely instrumental performance. However, the Toronto-based quartet fell short of this standard. Whereas Battles displayed a DJ’s knack for segues, stringing songs together until they formed an undulating epic, Holy Fuck stopped after every tune, forfeiting rhythmic momentum. A few numbers ended abruptly at the crest of their crescendos, making the build-ups feel anticlimactic.
Also, cohesive DJ-style sets encourage fans to dance rather than staring passively at the on-stage happenings, an arrangement that works to the advantage of most electronic-music acts. Not every beat-based group can be Daft Punk, donning robotic costumes in front of illuminated pyramids, but without visual stimulation or uninterrupted grooves, spectators spend a lot of time observing performers fiddle with their decks.
Holy Fuck achieves its sound through unconventional means, eschewing laptops, and it was intriguing to watch vocalist/keyboardists Brian Borcherdt and Graham Walsh occasionally incorporate 35 mm film reels and toy pianos. For the most part, though, the Record Bar crowd saw Borcherdt and Walsh facing each other and manipulating inscrutable wire-covered consoles, while the bassist and drummer toiled in the back.
It was a show short on eye contact, and the members of New York’s A Place to Bury Strangers remained focused on the floor in classic shoegazer fashion. Singer Oliver Ackermann controlled his calm gothic baritone despite the trio’s daunting volume, letting his guitar scream in his stead. The smoke-machine fog engulfed the stage, becoming a physical manifestation of the unrelenting feedback haze.
With about 10 minutes left in the set, Ackermann suddenly acknowledged his surroundings with the probing, wide-eyed of someone who'd just been revived from a coma. From that point on, the band’s music found new clarity, delving into deep Joy Division-caliber grooves before burying them in waves of spectacularly loud distortion. Pulsing white lights, which appeared right after Ackermann’s awakening, intensified the experience. A Place to Bury Strangers' closing flourish provided the evening’s only truly transcendent stretch.
Columbia’s Bald Eagle played straightforward rock ‘n’ roll, with fast drumbeats, tight guitar harmonies and shouted vocals. The group’s prodigiously bearded bassist and sometimes singer Justin Nardy, positioned in the middle of the stage, played with his back to the audience, revealing the maraca in his back pocket.
This was a concert devoid of traditional frontmen, central figures who interact with the audience and command attention. But even without the type of outsized personalities that make groups instantly identifiable, each band made a distinct impression.
Go to Scott Spychalski's Flickr page for more photos of A Place to Bury Strangers.
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