Melvins

This isn't a review — it's, so to speak, just the live report of a special evening, one of those rare occasions you're lucky to witness even once. We have to admit we were among those fortunate few who got another chance to see a truly unique and unrepeatable show, even though the Melvins remain a band inextricably tied to live performance, full stop: they've been touring for a lifetime, and we hope to see them again.

Speaking of this particular evening: we came close to perfection, that happy marriage of performance and show, that resolute will to put on a spectacle relying solely on undeniable talent and a desire to amaze and shake things up — and that's no small feat.

The Melvins, from Aberdeen, Washington, have never stopped surprising, building walls of sound that are also great fun, even as they stage the whole intimate, indie repertoire of people who live out, in their own skin, the frustrations — but also the passions — of everyday life.

Let's start with one of many possible observations. Take, for instance, the live rendering of songs that on record already come across as a numbing show of force, a slowed-down march toward destruction. What binds together these thankless dynamics is irony and an almost theatrical delivery: something, indeed, that so many contemporary bands taking themselves far too seriously sorely lack. The band happily borrows the swagger and rock poses of grand-guignol spectacle from sacred monsters like Kiss and Black Sabbath, and sadistically blends it, tossing it all into the blender, with witty, heartfelt homages to champions of classic-rock airplay like old Alice Cooper.

But let's not forget that, at the same time, King Buzzo and Dale Crover graft on plenty of post-punk structures, slowing everything down and diluting it into an intoxicating psych-rock brew like no one else has managed to do so far. There have been plenty of attempts, not always successful, but the original blueprint remains theirs — no one else even comes close, at least to these ears. Mind you, there are other examples of distinctive metal bands that have overhauled the old hard-rock grammar, see Neurosis and Slayer, but there we're already in more extreme territory, which the Melvins have only ever brushed against. They've toyed with those dynamics, transfigured them and made them their own through sheer innate talent alone — the talent, we repeat, for having fun and delighting an attentive audience that wants noise and just enough organised chaos to endlessly revel in so many, and such, emotions.

The night at the Estragon was yet another proof that when music history flexes its muscles, it becomes a shining example of a fierce, devastating urge to have fun. Opening the set, and the audience's ears, were Porn, essentially an offshoot of Melvins themselves, nasty enough to work over the crowd - not exactly huge in number, admittedly, but entirely focused on the anticipation of some physical and spiritual pain in the face of King Buzzo's near-pataphysical, hermetic lyrics and the drumming of a skin-beating monster like Dale Crover.

Like a vampire, the duo appears for a handful of tracks with just guitar and drums, a mouth-watering appetizer ahead of the real show; worth mentioning, for instance, is the explosive version of the classic "It's Shoved" that opened the set. Then, after a brief pause filled with music from old foxes like Frank Sinatra and co., followed by the mocking strains of the A-Team theme, one of the greatest rhythm sections of all time steps on stage: Big Business, in the shape of drummer Coady Willis, sporting a striking freak haircut, and the tectonic bass of former Karp man Jared Warren, another nearly unsung, nasty little combo. Needless to say, the set gains a strength and cohesion that sweep away any doubts about the generosity and thoroughly physical nature of what's on offer. It runs from a monster version of "Hooch", the spiritual and physical peak of the show, to the poppier "The Bit" and "Kicking M.", back to the days of "Bullhead" with a blistering, abrasive "Anaconda". And then "Smiling Cobra", "Billy Fish", and plenty of other stunning milestones that turn into a heartfelt tribute to a certain strain of American rock, almost classic-rock-FM stuff, from the likes of ZZ Top and the ever-present Kiss, but also the little-known, seminal punkers The Wipers.

At times it feels like there's a clever reclaiming of glam sounds, mixed with doses of pop metal, the kind only the best moments of Thin Lizzy ever managed to pull off - a constant search for musical solutions that are highly evocative and never an end in themselves. Ultimately, one comes away certain that on this special night we found ourselves somewhere where you can happily hear sensational echoes putting a genre - heavy music - back on the right track, a genre that only Melvins are able to handle and carry forward with dignity; to give it life and death, musically speaking, of course.

So our ears start bleeding happily again, something that hasn't happened to us in a long while, and we head home satisfied, with a burning urge to blast their best songs at full volume.

Ride the wave of great music

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