By 10:45 PM, I was late, mostly because my "sensible" heels had proven to be otherwise and walking across town had left my feet blistered and swollen. Barefoot, I entered the house and was quickly swept up by a crowd populated by gynecologists, Roman gladiators, and Judas Priest fans, all here to celebrate Halloween the way citizens of Humboldt county invariably celebrate every weekend: a house show. The first two bands had already gone on -- Maurader and Alibi, an experimental soundtracking duo creating what they call "re-partitioned apocalypso instrumentation," and local group Pipe(s) of the Doctor of Witchcraft, who were also of the avant variety.
By 11 o'clock, the time for White Manna had come. The five local boys making up WM delivered what the flier had promised: an evening of house party, stoner psych rock loud enough to make your heart skip beats, and went so far as to accompany it with a midi-organ. Silhouetted against a cardboard haunted-house backdrop, paper bats swung from the ceiling and blocked the light of the projector playing segmented 8mm films on the wall. To my left, a group of five or six individuals swayed around in a cooperative slow-motion mosh pit, as the heavily distorted Telecaster made my ears throb and eyes water, blurring reality into a mess of indistinguishable waves. Nearly 30 minute passed without a pause or breath, just a constant barrage of bass and crashing cymbals or a blazing guitar solo ebbing in and out of a pacing drum beat like one long crescendo. After a while, my wandering mind drew a connection to the dissonant garage rock of the Godz, and as chance would have it, a comp entitled Eureka Freak #3 Sampler: A Tribute to the Godz, was available after the set.
A little after midnight, the dispersed crowd congealed once again into an anxious mass for the Starving Weirdos, a group of great local and even fair international renown. With many individuals sprawled supine on the carpet, the foursome ensemble began their heavy "floorcore" set, each member crouched low over a seemingly incomprehensible tangle of cords, knobs, and pedals. The first minute of sound was deafening. A man dressed as a Syrian well-digger (I had to ask to find out; he looked like a Guantanamo escapee) twiddled a knob that made a low-whine squeal launch into the ultrasonic range, as another man in a shepherd's cloak convulsed over a single button emitting a small blue light, controlling who knows which sound amongst the orchestrated cacophony.
After an epic soundscape of another 30 minutes utilizing bells, chimes, violins, shakers, and bugle horns, the discordant wails succumbed to an over-reaching beat as they crowd gave in to a synchronized head-bob, the chaos momentarily unified before it shuddered to halt. Silence hung heavy for a instant before drunken onlookers burst into congratulatory hollers and applause, lively conversation reining again. As I made my way to the door, a mime talking to a large man dressed as Elmo said precisely what was on my mind, "That was amazing. They're so in my Top 10 friends." (Which they now are.)
The time was soon 1:15 AM and Sunburned Hand of the Man, the East Coast experimental psych outfit, was yet to make their headlining appearance. The kegs were all empty (all of them), and frankly I'd boogalooed as long as I could stand. By 1:30, the audience was cleaved, the hardcore separated from the casual observers, and it was apparent that I was not of the former. I was exhausted. Dejected and ready for bed, I made my way towards the door, shoes in hand, for the long walk home. In hindsight that was lame; I probably should have stayed. Rumor has it it was a "mind-blowing set, man. Can't believe you left." Story of my life.
