Monday, January 20, 2014

Virgin Takes on the Last Show @ 285 Kent w/ Fucked Up, DIIV, White Lung (PICS)

So, to preface this review, as the title hints at and I must admit, before last night, I was a 285 virgin. If you feel that totally eradicates any credibility I may have commenting on last night's historic show that ended an era, then stop reading. But being a virgin was a unique experience. I was certainly aware of the venue prior to last week, but not familiar with the lore surrounding it's D.I.Y. aesthetic. As the show neared, I could see the buzz surrounding this show and how momentous of an occasion it was set to become. The consensus was that this space would be sorely missed. For many, it housed some of their best memories, when they were either teenagers or twenty-somethings sneaking in alcohol, moshing and puking at Fucked Up, Iceage and JEFF the Brotherhood's show in 2011, one that is widely remembered as the sweatiest show in Brooklyn's history. The list of "had to be there" shows is extensive when it comes to the discussion of 285 Kent, and this last week has become a sort of reminiscence, a gathering of acts like Dan Deacon (Whose career organizer Todd Patrick or, P. is credited with helping develop) and Diiv, who had previously performed at the space and put on unforgettable performances, coming back to the space to bid adieu to the concrete rectangle that has helped shape their careers and many other's lives.
     Reading all of this before yesterday had me feeling nostalgic for days I hadn't even experienced and I felt sympathy for the select few who like not being patted down by security guards before shows and not feeling totally alienated from acts that they end up paying exorbitant amounts of money to see their favorite bands at other venues. If music is as much about the experience as it is the performance, 285 Kent was certainly the place that people had holistic musical experiences. Todd P himself in an NPR interview, that he prided himself in creating a space where people could meet future bandmates, friends, possibly kindle a romance. Basically, the aim of 285 Kent was to be a place with a semi-party, barely legal atmosphere where everyone felt welcome. 
     With all of this circling in my head, my expectations were really high for the long night that was ahead of me. I ended up asking the bouncer for Glassland's where Will Call was (Glassland's being a venue I legally can't even consider going to unless I have a fake from NJ, since its exclusively 21+ and I'm an untainted 18). Either from my dashing young looks or ignorant demeanor, he knew I was looking for 285 Kent, which sat smugly, proudly next to its antithetical neighbor, inviting people of any age inside to bask in it's stifling dungeon. Inside, my attention was drawn immediately to the wall mural, or rather murals, black spraypaint in ostensibly random circles and lines around the room. It looks fucking cool. What also strikes you is the temperature; it was toasty, which at first was a welcome solace from the cold breeze outside, but would turn out to be a pit of body heat that made my shirt feel fresh from the rinse cycle. Inside for a while, I made my way to the front and observed the room, a ritual I seem to do at every show. At first, there seemed an incongruity between what I had heard and the actual crowd at the show. They seemed fairly stolid, dotted with people taking photos for whatever music blog, some head nodders, a crowd gathered around the bar in the back. 
     I had just missed LORDO's set, frankly a band I hadn't heard of nor bothered to look up prior to yesterday (Fucked Up and White Lung were the pieces de resistance for the night). The second band to take the stage was Guardian Alien. The members each made sure to take a few hits of a joint before tearing into a two-part, almost 40 minute long epic, eardrum-shattering opus that may or may not have been the song/album "See the World Given to A One Love Entity". Nonetheless, the Greg Fox (formerly of liturgy) percussion driven wall of sound was interesting, albeit the sound wasnt well mixed, the vocals were unrecognizable over the cacophonous pulsation. The crowd at this point seemed pretty industry, and I was scared that it may remain so the entire night, hardly what I was expecting out of THE 285 Kent. 
     But once White Lung came on stage, the teenagers, the young at heart, the overall rockers, the lifeblood of D.I.Y. made their presence known with a gleeful mosh from the opening chords of "take the mirror" off of WL's brilliant 2012 release "sorry". White Lung are fast, but nothing is musically lost in their speed. If anything, guitarist Kennith Williams' proficiency is astounding, dishing out riff after riff to match tempo changes. It's lead singer Mish Way, who is simply captivating, with vocals that sounded straight from the studio. She's a powerful presence on the stage not just vocally but in her attitude. It's easy to see why she's constantly referred to as a riot grrl which she herself thinks to be a bit of an anachronistic label.(in one of her articles for Noisey, the Vice music division that trashed the hoopla surrounding this very night) Whatever you label her or her band, one thing is that they know how to put on a sweaty, well-oiled, set. They sought not to have much silent space between songs, banging out tinnitus-inducing songs one after another. It was enthralling and restored my faith in the night and venue. 
  DIIV was on next, the dreamy outfit fronted by Zachary Cole Smith (also of Beach Fossils), whose arrest this fall on heroin possesion I couldn't help thinking about as they took the stage. But tonight was about the music, and DIIV, the Captured Tracks cousin of Wild Nothing and so many bands trying to imitate their style were able to put on a memorable performance. 285 Kent's PA system wasn't too accommodating to DIIV's airy sound, the guitar riffs seemed to be absorbed quickly, unable to float the way they do on their record "Oshin". Still, they jammed, building upon riffs in songs in unison until they reached a point where it was impossible to resist the urge to sway, head nod, and groove, no matter how much of a Kurt Cobain wannabe this guy is. Kudos to bassist Deven Perez who was really the highlight of the set with the infectious grooves he played. A mosh found a way to form, and it did seem fitting for some odd reason. Between swaying and grooving to the jams, I looked on as teenage guys tried to use the mosh as an excuse to cop a feel on a teenage girl by me, epitomizing D.I.Y. ethos. 
     I could see Damian "Pink Eyes" Abraham peeking his head out from behind the stage to catch a glimpse of DIIV's set, before being interrupted by a slick photographer ready to bleed his ear about something he likely didn't care to hear (all speculation). Luckily, vanity wasn't in vogue at the venue, sweat was, and when Fucked Up took the stage at nearly 12:30, this became apparent. There is no entertainer out there who makes an audience feel more involved than Damian. It took him no more than two songs to find his way out into the crowd, carrying the microphone cord as if it were a lifeline. He split the crowd like the Red Sea, and found his was on top of a speaker in the back, where he put whatever people threw at him on his head. The band is adored, with a cult of fans that I see consistently show up at Fucked Up shows in the city. Damian turns their adulation into a cooperative effort in the show, allowing anyone to sing along. Maybe it's so he can save his voice for later screaming, but nonetheless it seems a friendly gesture. The other members of the band always seem aloof in comparison; Sandy Miranda a.k.a. Mustard Gas usually seems rather bored but I take that to just be a defining quality of coolness that I can't comprehend. The remainder of the band is vital and extremely talented; they allow Damian to get lost in the crowd while they don't miss a beat. Guitarist Mike Haliechuck provided beautiful backup vocals, and provided the rest of the band with alcohol that he was D.I.Y. drinking out of the bottle the entire set. Stage dives, dives off the speakers, lost glasses, stomped on hats all ensued. Brief gasps of especially rancid air, something similar to paper being burned filled the room from time to time. It was heady, dizzying, and awe-inspiring. My body was absolutely exhausted but I still hopped up on the stage during the cover of "Blitzkreig Bop" a wonderfully fitting finale, and attempted to crowd surf. Only my 230 pound body was not well supported by the exhausted concert goers, and I found myself on the floor within seconds. 
     Then, that was it. The last notes rung out, the hip hop came back on over the PA, and the bum rush to the exit took place. Sure some people stayed behind, the diehards, the ones who made the venue what it was, a place where people could hang out but it was all over. I searched for some sentimantality, some spilling of emotion. I tried to eavesdrop on a conversation, hoping to hear genuine expressions of emotion, of loss, but I couldn't. I was sure these people were aware of what was taking place, after all they were the select few out of thousands who had hoped to be within those cement walls that night. But the vibe was celebratory, like a victory lap. Sure, now that venue is closed, but an era wasn't necessarily over. The night had energized me. Damians words resonated in my head as I waited for the J train. We could all do it ourselves. It wasn't hard. On the cusp of 19 I don't know where it puts me, maybe I am a late-comer. Maybe there are 15 year olds already forming the next bands that are going to play the next had to be there shows. Or maybe time will grace me with a few more years to plunder youth in a venue like 285, to make my own memories that I will be melancholy over when the time comes, when the next venue shutters it's doors. 
     The landscape is hard to judge. How a place like 285 Kent survived for as long as it did in Williamsburg is hard to grasp. With the capitalization of cool, the future seems up in the air. Todd P, has been the spearhead of something that has changed the way we gather in the name of music. Plus, he's just opened a venue in the beautiful borough of Queens, Trans Pecos. Will that venue, or maybe the new Silent Barn eventually garner the same mystique that has surrounded 285 and Northsix before it became Music Hall of Williamsburg? Who knows? But D.I.Y. lives on. 

Pictures BELOWWW

















     


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