June Of 44

More than thirty years after it first took shape, the sheer inexplicability of the Louisville case continues to baffle critics and sociologists alike. How did it happen that the most significant musical revolution of the last stretch of the 20th century originated in an isolated, marginal city, in a traditionally reactionary state like Kentucky, in total independence from the bigger, more celebrated scenes (barring the logistical support of studios and labels in nearby Chicago)? Rarely has a place appeared on the map so suddenly and for such noble reasons: before the second half of the 1980s, Louisville was known essentially as the "Bourbon capital" and as the birthplace of Cassius Clay, whereas now, even to a moderately informed listener, it can only be "the cradle of post-rock" (a label that is admittedly partial, given its contribution to the evolution of emo, post-hardcore and alternative rock too). The city's glorious local scene crowns the comeback of provincial America inaugurated by the big bang of hardcore and carried forward by the Rem saga, marking a decisive step toward the geographic decentralization that has by now become a structural feature of New World music. It's hard not to feel for this heroic story, for someone like me who was born and raised in a small town on the farthest outskirts of the Empire.

June Of 44 belong to "branch B" of the city's family tree, the one that sprouted from the brief but seminal adventure of Rodan (the other being that of the patriarchs Squirrel Bait, from which descend the second generation Bastro–Bitch Magnet and the third Slint–Gastr Del Sol–Seam–For Carnation), in turn giving rise to new tasty offshoots such as Shipping News, HiM and Abilene. As a supergroup bringing together talents from some of the most profound American experiences of the 1990s (Codeine, Lungfish, Rex, and the aforementioned Rodan), they perhaps deserve more than any other the title of post-rock band par excellence, the most programmatic and meticulous in exhausting every possibility of the definition, and together with Slint and Tortoise they effectively make up the sacred triad of reference for the non-genre. However, unlike the former (who, despite not having recorded new material, occasionally resurface on stage) and the latter (who have always remained active), after disbanding in 1999 Jeff Mueller's quartet vanished without a trace, exponentially increasing the legendary aura radiating from their evocative name: that alone is enough to make this exclusively Italian mini-tour (built around the two-day celebration in Catania for the thirtieth anniversary of Uzeda, where they shared the bill with towering peers such as Shellac, The Ex and Black Heart Procession) the concert event of the year. If we add that it's also my twenty-ninth birthday, which a curious coincidence has placed just two days before the month the band takes its name from, the picture of an evening charged with intense emotional involvement is complete: if only because my mind flies straight back to the magical night I turned 18, back in 2007, in front of Slint in the flesh, unspooling their most famous album note for note.

I rush to the Locomotiv well ahead of time to grab a spot right at the foot of the stage: I want to see with my own eyes every tiny scratch on the wood of their guitars. It's raining, perhaps because of the magnetism already building up in the air (even though June Of 44's music leans more toward the dry component of American post-rock, hardcore-derived, than the torrential one of its European counterpart, wave-derived). Opening is Joe Goldring, already alongside Doug Scharin in HiM, who armed with a Telecaster and a loop station entertains us for half an hour of knotty electric crochet-work, between arpeggios, e-bow and creeping distortion, fleshed out at the end by his voice too: nothing thrilling, but at least in keeping with the steel cobwebs about to unravel shortly after. The quartet briefly appears for a quick tuning, then takes the stage spurred on by the crowd's roar. Their ordinary appearance is the quintessence of the anti-stardom that has always set Midwest post-rockers apart. The atmosphere is electric, and they seem thoroughly charged up, both by the size and the warmth of the audience.

The storm begins quietly with a "Pregenerate" as vibrant as a stormcock battered by the wind, promising squalls that never actually materialize, riding a spasmodic tension that's finally released by the amniotic intro of "Of Information And Belief", which starts out disoriented and then grows ever more vicious, with Scharin's hi-hat turning into a merciless hair shirt and Meadows's guitar standing in for a violin. Just as on record, the vocals are kept slightly beneath the level of the instruments, in perfect Touch And Go style. Next comes another heavyweight cut from the masterpiece "Four Great Points", "Does Your Heart Beat Slower?", which despite its title is a jolt of pure adrenaline, staging a duel between Mueller's 335 and Meadows's Telecaster over Erskine's syncopated bass. The various parts interlock with a killer precision that's almost frightening. What's truly terrifying, though, is the endless "Anisette", howled in two-part vocals with a fervor that harks back to their never-disowned hardcore roots, tight palm muting and iron-hard bass, a jarring alternation of dilation and compression that resembles a dying animal that nonetheless keeps getting back up, before finally being felled by a unison finale that stands your hair on end. Scharin is so drenched in sweat after this tour de force that he has to ask for a towel, before diving headfirst back into the slippery, crisscrossing glissandos of "Lusitania".

"Here tonight we have Spanish people, Croatian people, Polish people… and of course Italian people, too!", Mueller declares, visibly moved, aware of the international pull their unexpected appearance has drawn. He's so caught up in the moment that he almost unknowingly launches into the wrong song, then apologizes with amusement while the other three mock him: "I messed up! I'm special…". There's little laughter, though, in the following "June Leaf", sung by Meadows, a metal gauntlet dishing out slaps left and right as it climbs toward a spine-tingling crescendo. After greeting his son, who's in the crowd, Jeff offers us "Cardiac Atlas", one of the pieces in their catalogue closest to alternative rock, complete with an unusual, almost funky bridge, ideal for catching our breath. "Recorded Syntax", by contrast, is as intricate as an ancient fabric, a dense weave of off-beat bass, an obsessive snare and guitar watered down by a tremolo-sonar effect that, in its finale, intoxicates us with its painfully slow concentric spirals.

Bringing us back down to earth is the mesmerizing "The Dexterity Of Luck", an endless, slightly acidic opening stitched through with feedback and then a series of venomous guitar jabs demolished by an avalanche of kick-drum hits, before flowing, as if nothing happened, into the adamantine harmonics of "Doomsday". A quick tuning over the last notes of the bass, just in time before the thunderous drumming of "Cut Your Face" tramples the other instruments like the boots of an army of terracotta soldiers, the guitar turned into a nail gun and the voice now capable of nothing but a disjointed stutter sawed apart by the rhythm section's murderous stop-starts. Jeff leans out to shake as many hands as he can reach (mine included), says thanks and disappears backstage.

The assault resumes shortly after with the single most epic moment of the night: the dizzying "Sharks And Sailors" is THE June Of 44 song, with that almost Smashing Pumpkins-like hard opening giving way to an Albini-esque drilling in which the instruments are reduced to splatters and spits, shredded on a mute grater where what you perceive isn't so much notes as the snap of strings, breathing only in the choruses that we can't help but belt out at the top of our lungs. In the middle comes a dehydrated little march followed by an uphill run on a treadmill moving in the opposite direction, before everything comes apart into a maelstrom of rusty stabs, the whole thing fractured by pauses so abrupt it feels like being repeatedly unplugged and reconnected to a machine keeping us alive. Jeff is so dazed by his own picking and by our screaming that at times he seems to lose his way, only to be reeled back in every time by the inimitable Scharin. It's hard to say who's more exhausted by the end of the song, us or them, as they once again duel it out in the dark.

"You're crazy!" Jeff exclaims, back on stage to calm the infernal racket we're making. He seems genuinely incredulous at our enthusiasm, which almost seems to embarrass him: despite a career now spanning more than two decades, he has remained a humble small-town punk, reluctant to accept celebrations he believes he doesn't deserve. But we've earned a little more music, given the amount of noise we unleashed to call them back, and we're rewarded with two final offerings: "Generate", an industrial dub piece hammered out like blows from an anvil with a long pause in the middle, and "Sink Is Busted" (the only track from their debut "Engine Takes To The Water"), carved out of rock by the repetitions of a delay while the voice rasps from another dimension. The closing wave of applause is so overwhelming it sweeps the four of them away for good. Italians are an excellent audience, no one will ever convince me otherwise. I glance at Jeff's set up, which makes do with just an overdrive and an echo: what else, after all, could you need? I consider sticking around the venue for the all-too-predictable encore (photos from fans the next day will confirm it happened), but I'd rather slip away: I've just witnessed something too intense, and I want to go to bed still wrapped in that untainted feeling.

No one in attendance will easily forget this insane night, the kind of experience that would call for periodic reunions of survivors just to properly process it. Maybe someone will (re)form a band as soon as tomorrow. As for me and my own delicate handover of existential duties, I couldn't have asked for a more fitting soundtrack than a band that, starting out in hardcore's adolescence, arrived at the adulthood of post-rock without a trace of grandstanding, but rather with the imaginative discretion that belongs only to true small-town kids. Because June Of 44 absolutely must be seen live before you turn thirty, like all the bands that "can be your life".

for Paolo

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