I am completely in love, perhaps an agape love, with the new song Broadcast has been ending all their shows with on the current tour. You know the one I’m talking about… the one with Trish Keenan shredding on a customized electric dulcimer. Like, total “My Dear Companion” meets “Astronomy Domine” meets “Autobahn” meets “Fight For Your Right (To Party)” action. Ya know, the krautrock hoedown. With the help of Pretty Creatures‘ warm analog tape bootleg of the show (you can download it here), I grabbed the finale, cleaned it up a bit (with just a couple of compressors, filters, and a peak limiter – no manipulation of the actual sound), and am providing it below for maximum damage (you can grab the cleaned-up-a-bit version here). No one knows the actual name of this song yet, so I’mma call it “Dulcimer Jam.” Because it features an amplified dulcimer. And it’s a jam.

MP3 :::
Broadcast – Dulcimer Jam [Wexner Center, Columbus, 10.25.09]

I believe that, technically, Atlas Sound is the headliner, but I’m treating this show as if Broadcast was. I love both artists, obviously. However, Bradford Cox, to quote The Spirit of Truth, makes his “ass very available,” whereas Broadcast hasn’t been around in a minute. So for me finally seeing Broadcast, after being a huge fan for six or seven years, is quite huge. They were also the primary motivation for making the three hour trek up I-71. I’m pleased to report that the goods were thoroughly delivered.

Opening was The Selmanaires from Atlanta. They were rad. Think of Gang Gang Dance. Now imagine a non-shitty version of Gang Gang Dance. That’s The Selmanaires. The majority of the set consisted of ambient layers by way of their Mini Korg, which eventually ascended into Mercury Rev-style ornate pop with pervasive, intricate rhythms and nasty low end. Oh, and djembes everywhere. While The Selmanaires were fairly cosmic, they do indeed like the nightlife and/or like to boogie.

One thing I really dug about the Wexner, besides being a nice college facility, was the total absence of fucking around. There was virtually no changeover time. After The Selmanaires finished up their 40-or-so minute set, the crew wheeled out the screen and flipped on the projector. The title card illuminated the screen – Winter Sun Wavelengths. And in the upper left hand corner was the Ghost Box logo, which pretty much guarantees that you’re about to see some shit. Some shit is also known as brain burning hauntological visuals from Julian House’s celestial brain.

So the Broadcast show takes a big fat page from the Wizard of Oz. Actually, spooky technicolor performance piece is a more accurate description, but for the sake of brevity, I’ll keep referring to it as “show.” Anyway, the “show” was divided, as suggested, into two segments. The first was a 20-minute, highly structured dissonant noise jam set to high contrast black-and-white visuals of opitcal illusions, eye exam cards, sine waves, and barren trees. During the epic psych slam, Broadcast was surprisingly loud. I’d put them on my top ten loudest bands I’ve seen list. Of course, their loudness is different than, say, Dinosaur Jr. Their loudness was dependent on frequencies and wavelengths that hit your ear in a very intense fashion rather than Mogwai-style pure horsepower. The permeating zone-out transmissions pulsated hard. My dome turned in to a cottonball and my balls retracted, not unlike my reaction toward My Bloody Valentine’s Holocaust Section (though Broadcast’s was less demonic).

Then, very suddenly, the barren trees faded – replaced with swirling pastels and a lead in to “Corporeal.” This was the latter half of the show. Broadcast treats their set as one long piece, so most of the songs faded into each other. After some atomic deep sea diving, we were treated to more Tender Buttons action a la “Black Cat,” as well as “Lunch Hour Pops” from Haha Sound, and… gobs of new material. It seems that Broadcast is now distinctly within motorik dream pop realms laced with the type of ambiance found on Witch Cults, meaning that the forthcoming effort(s) will be decidedly different than their pre-HaHa Sound retro-futuristic lounge as well as the glitchy IDM of Tender Buttons.

The highlight of the evening, however, was the finale. Trish Keenan strapped on a dulcimer, which is one of my favorite simple acoustic instruments. For the non-musician types, a dulcimer is a popular tool in traditional Appalachian music. It’s a rather quiet instrument, and one that you can often find with build-it-yourself kits for $30 or so. Hence, I figured we were going to get a break in the stratospheric jams and take a load off with a quiet ballad. No fucking dice. That dulcimer was amplified. Wut chu kno bout an electric dulcimer?!

This, folks, is a krautrock hoedown:

Lana put it best I think. She said something to the effect of “Band did not dick around. Girl sets up, throws up hands and cusses at the sound guy, walks on, says hello, rocks out, bumps into the mic a couple of times, gives a grateful thanks plus buh-bye, and they were out.” She also mentioned she felt “haunted,” and I’ll agree with that. This is art. Broadcast slayed it.

Atlas Sound closed out the evening. B Cox, of course, came out with some his world-famous banter while setting up. The Selmanaires returned to the stage to act as Bradford’s full backing band. I was impressed at how Cox reinterpreted his catalog for the live show. The best way to describe it would be “shoegaze Americana” or “truly cosmic American music” (a play on the Gram Parsons quotation) or “kinda like The Byrds but with more effects pedals.” Harmonica and twangy, tinty guitars were given the same amount of exposure as Deerhunter’s ad infinitum stage drones and effects pedal tweaking. It was a good time, but we had to dart shortly after “Walkabout” so we could get home before 4 a.m. and I could be at work Monday morning without being a total zombie. Besides, I love ya B Cox… but it’s fucking hard to follow up Broadcast. I mean, their live set was Old Testament. I still had crazy tinnitus ringing in my ears during Atlas Sound, ya know. Gonna miss those frequencies.

Regular readers of this blog will be familiar with my usual bellyachin’ about how my camera leaves much to be desired. However, I think the camera’s fuzziness in low light, combined with the high contrast visual element of the show, actually worked to our benefit this time. These photos, perhaps ironically, truly capture the telescopic mood of the show better than, say, a big boy camera like the Canon Rebel. I’m extremely pleased with how these turned out, considering troubles I’ve had with concert photos recently. Lana took ‘em all, so please send her some love on her Flickr page.

::: BROADCAST (a.k.a. <3 U TRISH KEENAN!!!1)

::: ATLAS SOUND

How can you pass on a band called Psychedelic Horseshit? These Columbus, Ohio psych-poppers are largely dismissive of the shitgaze scene that they are often lumped into, and talk their fair share of trash about its guilty participants. Core member Matt Whitehurst recently chatted with the Washington Post about the current state of lo-fi music noting, “I’m not Rick Rubin, but I wanna be,” and going on to accuse peers like Wavves of, “hiding behind static.” And while he’s probably right, all this “constructive criticism” is just gonna land these guys in the bitter has-bin with Lydia Lunch one day.

Of course, none of this gossip would matter if Psychedelic Horeshit didn’t have some killer bite to back up the nagging. Their most recent assault is the cheekily-titled Shitgaze Anthems, a self-desribed “b-sides EP from an album that hasn’t come out yet.” It’s loud, catchy, and filtered through the kind of fuzz that really sticks to the bottom your shoes. These six songs willfully interchange psych, punk, dub, folk, psychobilly, and garage rock for their unique sound that could sit comfortably within the Black Lips early catalog. Opener “We’re Pink Floyd, Bitch” juxtaposes snot-nosed vocals and insane choral explosions of grinding stone melodies and chirping synths into some seriously thick-skinned pop. There are many surprises on this EP, from amphetamine C86-style punk of “Dreadlock Paranoia,” that abruptly dissolves into a clunky reggae bridge, to the coarse acoustic strumming of “As in Dreams Pt. 2″. With the adventurous song-structures, the vocals are the most lack luster component of this outspoken group, but if he ever takes the clothes pin off his nose, these guys may someday replace their umbrella-peers like Vivian Girls as no-fi royalty.

Shitgaze Anthems is available now on Woodsist, and no one blames you if you can’t get into it.

For fans of:  Sic Alps, Eat Skulls, early Black Lips

MP3 :::
Psychedelic Horseshit – Dreadlock Paranoia
Psychedelic Horseshit – We’re Pink Floyd, Bitch