I Am A Shadow ... The True Self ...?
After some dissonance was held in an eastern suburb, I gathered my limited belongings and traversed the ice covered roads toward the windy outskirts of said city. There was a smell of pregame in the air along with malodorous window cleaning fluid. The drive was minor compared to previous endeavors; brake lights illuminating the highway like angry fireflies. The drastic winter gales causing us to lean into each turn and sudden stop. Upon the final road, I began to feel foreign in this familiar world of concrete titans and steel lunged overpasses. My bearded companion was confident in his sense of direction to lead us further than I was comfortable transporting us. Discovered a rare parking spot which required no fee for an extended visitation. Together he and I pressed forward through the blistering cold until the Congress Theater's ivory overhead became apparent. The line of bodies ... started three roads down which was awkward and discomforting. Thankfully the masses were already filing through the front doors by the time we arrived.
Inside the venue, we found ourselves some comfortable standing ground, if that is ever possible. It was then that Russian Circles entered the stage and destroyed our very humanity. Reached into our carnal soul. And ripped out what was left of us.
Harper Lewis began with a powerful bass driven manifold, cracking our complacency to nil. Mike Sullivan (guitarist) immediately allowed his instrument to howl and moan painfully with a sorrow that can only be described as 'internal withering'. The drum beat profusely intact and striking our ears as unpredictable thunder clouds. I began to drone out and lose all meaning to my stationary body. All pain, recluse, and inebriated desires all just washed away with the waves of sound and agony.
Toward the end of the song, Colin DeKuiper's (bassist) guitar strap broke making it very difficult to play the sonic driven keyboard before him whist maintaining the bass laced background. After some pondering, he ended up resting the bass upright against his waist and pulled off some wicked licks before leaving the stage to make reparations to his lively tool. During the interval an ambiance hackneyed the performance into a moment of muddle. Both Mike and Colin had disappeared from the stage tending to their technical difficulties.
Only Dave Turncrantz (drummer) remained, and oh my goodness did he become a glowing entity during the abysmal moment of utter performance darkness. He kept the beat going. The song going WITHOUT any guitars present. This was bliss. A fantastic high when everything could have fallen so damn low. It made me appreciate the trio slightly more than ever. Especially Turncrantz's entertaining nature to build something out of nothing. Primordial appreciation swirling within my swadhisthana. Wreckage. Now morphing into animalistic pulsations.
When the time was right, the entire band exploded straight into Geneva with very little grace. The audience yelled with excitement at the return of Colin's functioning bass guitar. He wasted no time bombarding our brains with note after every heavy note to create an almost suffocating atmosphere. I relished every second of it. It was a comeback like never before seen. He began throwing his strings all over the place trembling the floor below us with quakes of ecstasy. Turncrantz went insane with his blast beats and high hat sky dancing. Rivers of aggression and heat began to pour into our craniums. Velocity took its toll and heads began to sway and hammer into the magnificence. My bearded friend had to make himself some posthaste ear plugs in reaction to the relentless popcorn of metallic tones.
Once the sorrowful last few riffs of Mike came to a bittersweet conclusion, the band flew right into the melancholic Mlàdek with little mercy. My mind's eye began to trip out to the most exquisite visions of fog and crystallized runes. Patterns of particles began to dance in my very much so euphoric haze of sight. The lights began to dim as if to invoke a mood of discomfort in its audience. Discordant reasoning meshed with staggering sounds dripping lower and lower into your conscious.
A level of sadness that is necessary to understand your surroundings.
A mosh pit (oddly enough) erupted the moment Death Rides a Horse reared it's hideous head. Each note delivered with such vigor and prowess, I had no real words to describe what happened on stage. It reminded me a shaman dancing in front of a bonfire to tell a story of gods traveling the earth with mighty, mighty steps. Each foot print causing rivers to become oceans and mountains to cower into hills. When the band left the stage, we all yearned them to stay and continue their doomsday dance! My bearded friend and I then took our mystic experience into the next two bands that performed before calling it a 'night'.
After leaving the theater, Giese and I decided to make a visit to a local pub where his brother works as a bartender. We partook a dual of hearty drinks while discussing future possibilities to see bands that we knew would never ever perform in the Chicago area. Particularly the cascadian arc area where black metal still runs rampant like a foul beast e'er finding slumber to settle. Thankfully our post rock scene is diverse enough to keep us optimistic each year. Eventually- my colleague was losing his comprehension of north and south. Which meant we were set to head out. After some hilarious antics of navigating our way back to the 'burbs, we ended up crashing onto the floor with conversation for another hour or so. A serene reminder that I have a brother-like presence in my midst. Someone who doesn't mind me rambling about the same point due to ale illness. Leaving his place was the hardest part of all. Seriously- how does one return to a constructive life after being deconstructed by an alternative point of view? Probably the reason why we choose that alternative so often in our digitally influenced perspective. Painful. Delicious.
Pleasantries to all who traversed. Thank you.