Tiny Spiders confess to being rusty and slightly out-of-practise. It still sounds damn good to me.
Die On Planes make a welcome return to the stage after a long absence. Even if it’s only a one-off (which seems likely) it’s a real pleasure to be pummeled by their sludgy, crunching stoner rock again.
Date: August 29, 2010
Venue: Burst City, Brisbane
Acts: Die On Planes, Fangs of a TV Evangelist
I may have been influenced too much by the Brisbane Powerhouse’s free Live Spark series, but Sunday afternoon gigs carry a different flavour. More relaxed. Less full-on.
Admittedly, this is easier achieved with Live Spark’s indie-pop fare than a racket of noise-punk or sludge, so it’s interesting to see the same casual enjoyment at work amongst the punters at Burst City this afternoon. It’s very different to the frantic carousing of some of Burst City’s evening shows.
Lest that be seen as some sort of slight on the quality of the afternoon’s acts, Fangs of a TV Evangelist is just as full-throttle as their incendiary performance the night before. And Die On Planes quickly find their way into a deep and very appealing groove.
Forming a tight triangle, the three-piece proceeds to treat that groove like it’s some sort of sonic plasticine. Over 20-plus minutes, they push, prod, elongate, compress and generally terrorise it with all manner of trebly psychedelic guitar fuzzing, abrupt squalls of distortion, deep v8 rumbles and a near-constant storm of crash cymbals. Even though it’s loud as all fuck, there’s a comfort in the way the song’s long, gradual evolution from birth to extinction involves constant repetition and change of that original riff.
I am sure because just up the road hundreds of drunken, braying idiots are packing themselves into the Mustang Bar trying to out-bogan each other, while a bare two-score watch the feeback-ridden, twin-guitar extremities of The Entire Asian Population.
I am sure because hundreds desecrate the rotting corpse of the Arena content to pop pills and listen to recycled RnB while at the Step Inn Ambrose Chapel channels aural destruction from the very heavens with his fingertips.
And I am sure because Brisbanites would rather pay through the nose for overpriced cocktails in wanky inner-city bars than fork out a mere $8 to enter the Step Inn to sample the likes of Turnpike, AXXONN and No Anchor.
If I was God, I would smite Brisbane for these iniquities.
God, ineffably, refrains. Nevertheless, I am sure that God hates Brisbane. It’s just a matter of time.
There are several moments tonight when I am just blown away by the force of the bands on display.
Everything about Die On Planes furious racket from the slow Sabbath-like riffing that defines much of their one-tune, 25-minute set to the moaning chant at the end that alternates between nihilistic screaming and a raga-like throat-singing. The point when Donovan Miller’s sticks begin to shred, sliver and splinter in his hands as Butcher Birds amp things up on Bare Arms. Then, later, the pent ferocity of Stacey Coleman’s vocals throughout new song Volt.
And when headliners The Smokestack Orchestra shove even more bottom-end grunt under the engine courtesy of a second drummer. I don’t know if it’s a permanent thing — it’s not as though Skritch is a lightweight on the skins — but it was glorious to watch and just as popular with everyone else judging from the enthusiastic, drunken dancing going on.
I think it’s telling when fans gleefully rejoice that they’re off to get their faces melted when about to see a band. It’s quite a visual.
And in the case of Joe Preston under the moniker of Thrones, it’s utterly true. Pummeled by this heavy, massively detuned noise, faces melted and ran like ice cream in the hot sun. Mountains crumbled. Worlds imploded. Galaxies spawned and died in an instant.