Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.
-Frank Zappa (?)
In the wake of seeing Sunn O))) live in Washington, DC on Friday, April 10, I’ve been grappling once again with the words above, brushing up against the inadequacy of language in certain contexts. It’s incredibly humbling, particularly when words are usually easy to find, easy to manipulate. The show was at the Lincoln Theater, a venerable old theater that reminded me fleetingly of Pittsburgh’s dearly departed Syria Mosque; tattered, cozily lived-in, two levels, sepia-toned, and reeking of nostalgia. My destination was Orchestra L, row A. The word “orchestra” itself should communicate plenty about not just the venue, but possibly where Sunn O))) locate themselves in the musical firmament these days. On the horizon, as I enter, is an ominous wall of 100-watt Sunn O))) Model T’s astride Hiwatt cabinets with some Ampex SVT’s thrown in for good measure. I kept walking until the horizon dissolved and I was sitting directly in front of Greg Anderson’s side of this foreboding, eardrum-battering wall of aural domination and doom. The band encouraged “a no phone experience,” which I applaud, but it was hard not to take awestruck photos of their gear.
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Smoke slowly started billowing forth simultaneously with a tape that spliced together live banter from Venom shows. No songs, just Cronos saying goofy KISS-style rock’n’rollisms. This is important to note, as is the fact that Sunn 0)))’s new self-titled record contains a song called: “Does Anyone Hear Like Venom?” It is a key Sunn 0))) paradox. Despite the black metal/cold Nordic heart at the core of their initial musical partnership and the very serious, solemn way they present themselves in a live setting, there is a sense of humor, joy, and celebration in the art Sunn 0))) produces. The robes emphasize the solemnity while invoking a sense of a ritual, but I suspect they also hide an occasional grin between the duo and perhaps even a wink and a nod reserved for particularly enraptured audience members. After all, Stephen O’ Malley once remarked, “We’re kind of about having too much.” Which is another way of saying they’re celebrating excess. Knowingly. Doing so requires having at least humor about said endeavor.
Cronos eventually stops telling us we’re “Wild, man. Wild!” and two men appear, largely obscured by smoke and mist. One picks up a 2005 Les Paul Deluxe Goldtop. The other, a gorgeous Travis Bean TB1000A. Their weapons of choice. The conjuring begins. Drop-A tuning. Tone first. Deep, fathomless tone. Staggering sheets of sound start to permeate the century-old space more quickly, severely, and thoroughly than the omnipresent mist. It quickly exerts its palpability and undeniable physical presence. Punishing, oceanic cascades of distorted sound waves attack my skull and chest. It starts to move, to undulate, to pulse. Anderson and O’Malley play expertly off each other, theatrically accentuating a pending down-stroked chord they know’ll have enough power to fracture the sidewalks of U Street. Rumbling, bassy cloud formations pour forth and rain heavily down on devotees seeking purity somehow in this torrential baptism of noise. One thing nonbelievers have trouble understanding is just how adept these two acolytes are at imbuing these titanic sound with dynamism. There is an undeniable ebb and flow in the heinously over-saturated slow burning builds that eventually combust like burning stars. Speaking recently of their current two-man iteration, O’Malley said, “The fundamental ideas of the ensemble, the instrumentation were all there in the distortion.” Living perilously alongside and within the maelstrom. You can hear it breathe. Feel it sigh, groan, gasp and scream.
The set really started seething when “XXAANN” sprawled out of the speakers and the droning swells became more serrated, settling into mountainous overdriven clouds of ferocious high-gain madness. The guitarists masterfully controlled these searing lightning bolts of distortion, which melted into ancient lakes of saturation that seemed to ooze from the ceiling. Anderson’s guitar emitted savagely low sub-bass frequencies, which were on display during the show’s true crescendo: the roiling, monolithic “Butch’s Guns.” Towering pillars of monstrous Tom G. Warrior tones/riffs erupted from O’Malley like electrical storms before blurring into a glitchy, screeching Merzbow-meets-Bernard Herrmann inspired denouement. I actually thought one of Anderson’s amps was going to explode. The shining, buzzing tubes appeared to levitate, a whole beautiful line of desperately overheated 6550 vacuum tubes…straining. After Butch laid his guns down, there were suffocating waves of droning bass-heavy dissonance and feedback, which somehow extinguished itself before anything burned or tumbled down. A wave of celebratory joy swept through the smoke and noise. The two men put down their guitars and smiled.
–Dennis J. Seese
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Sunn O))) is available now via Sub Pop.