You can tell a great deal about a gig by the state of your hearing the following morning. These days, I tend to wear earplugs for all but the quietest of shows, or all-acoustic performances, which means that a) I rarely experience the raging tinnitus I used to (well, I’m assuming it’s the plugs rather than the fact my hearing’s permanently fucked) b) when I do experience any aftereffects, it must have been a loud one.
I woke up the morning after Melvins not with the usual high-pitched squeal, but a continuous low drone, more akin to the sound of a vacuum cleaner. That’s what I get for being down the front. My body doesn’t feel quite right, either, It’s not the occasional bruise sustained from the occasional elbow of those slow-moshing in my vicinity, and besides, apart from the odd stage diver stage diving at half-speed is something to see) most of the crowd experience the gig from within their own private spaces. No, it’s something altogether different, as though my molecules have been dispersed and reassembled having in the interim been transported to another universe.
Before the stoner rock legends take to the stage, there’s a real sense not only of anticipation, but of warmth; the vibe was more than good, and was positively good-natured, even chummy, and chatting to a couple of friendly and very excited guys who’d driven to Leeds from Norfolk, I began to appreciate just how ardent and devoted the band’s fan base is. I should have guessed, really, not least of all because there was a queue a quarter of a mile long when I arrived ten minutes before 8pm doors, The Melvins weren’t even due on for another hour and a half nearly.
There was no support; just 100 minutes of pure, unadulterated Melvins. As we waited, the immense double drum kit positioned front centre stage seemed to exert a great presence, dominating the entire room, as if radiating some sense of the enormity of the sound it would soon create.
From the moment the four horsemen of the grunge apocalypse, dressed in Romanesque tunics (apart from the crazy haired King Buzzo, who was wrapped in a fetching ankle-length velvet kaftan-type garment, with a high neck and complete with embroidered dogs in many colours) took to the stage, the atmosphere reached a new plateau of electricness, The barrage of explosive percussion began firing, each beat registering the impact of a bomb detonating, while the twin assault of guitar and bass blasted forth, impacting like juggernaut, signalling the start of an ear-bleeding rendition of ‘Lysol’.
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No-one came expecting a greatest hits set: those who appreciate Melvins do so because they’re not a band set in the past or who trade on their (ridiculously extensive) back-catalogue, Nevertheless, they treat us to a career-spanning selection that gives so much more than even an excellent live recording, such as the most recent ‘Sugar Daddy’ album ever could. The recording just can’t get anywhere near capturing the experience. Seeing the band play on a stage that’s not much over two feet high and with no barrier only adds to the intensity of the landslide bass and guitar, and nothing, but nothing could convey the punishing force of the drums that dominate the sound and provide a truly phenomenal degree of density and weight. This is up close and personal: resting my hands on the monitor at Buzzo’s feet, I feel droplets of moisture land on my knuckles as sweat falls from his face.
They haul ‘It’s Shoved’ and the super-sludgy ‘Ligature’ off the ‘Bullhead’ album and it’s a blinder. They play ‘Lizzy’ and the crowd goes mental. There’s no between-song banter: there isn’t time. As the final notes of one song die down, the next song begins. People have come to listen to them play songs, and that’s exactly what they get, monster songs played loud, hard and heavy.
There’s no respite: the space between the ‘end’ of the set, which sees Buzzo and bassist Jared exit the stage, and the beginning of the encore is filled with a drum duet. Ordinarily, an extended drum solo is a big yawn, but then ordinarily they’re nothing like this: the interplay between the two percussionists, who register earth-shattering hits with every stroke, and with precision timing, is spectacular to behold. Dale Crover and Coady Willis are simply phenomenal, and when the 100 minutes are up, no-one leaves disappointed. Nothing short of awesome.
The Melvins Online
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