A Parade of Emptiness, or How Much Do You Care About Your Ankles? (2013)

Venue: Kino Šiška, Ljubljana, Slovenia
Concert date: 04/18/2013
Attendance: 200 – 300
Ticket price: €22 presale / €25 on the day of the show

I admit it – I’m skeptical about the sincerity of generic genres like metalcore and deathcore. After the original musical inspiration and the rush of the first honest blood of real fervor and creative fever among the main flag-bearers of the genre’s first wave, the fact is mostly that not every young guy and girl who decides to walk the well-trodden path to success has enough balls of their own to earn credit for genius, vitality, freshness and innovation. That’s partly why I was damn skeptical about the actual success of the moshing tendency announced right in the name of the Mosh Still Lives Tour. Like plenty of other mini festivals and more glamorous instant concert hybrids of the past, it brought a bit more concentrated live action to the stage of Ljubljana’s Kino Šiška this year. Emmure were supposed to be the main draw, and the lineup was packed with names that, in today’s musical texture of metalized music, haven’t left any mark beyond a trendy bookmark saying something new is happening on the scene, though not necessarily something revolutionary. I grew up in the days when nu-metal shook up the music world after grunge, and soon after that the first cannonade of the new wave of Swedish melody came rolling in, and then metalcore “happened” too. So I’ve heard and tasted plenty, but I haven’t tested every last bit of smut that’s the central hot chestnut for today’s youth. I always like to give music a chance to prove itself, and I’m usually open to novelties, though not always fully trusting, and that was the baggage I brought along to this visit to Ljubljana’s cathedral of concert pleasure, the notorious Kino Šiška.

One look at the youth swarming in front of the entrance shows that the show was the closest thing to a reunion of old acquaintances from all the core processions. Besides ear-stretching jewelry and freshly bought shirts, the guys and girls alike love showing off the fresh drawings and writing on their bodies, even if the ink in the tattoos hasn’t completely dried yet. I’ve got nothing against tattoos, let me stress, but it’s all become such a damn overused pose that you have to wonder whether this parade of surface polish and inner emptiness has anything to do with real love of music. Instead of records and CDs, all that’s being sold is cosmetics, and the pose matters more than a real stance in life, the kind you can use to challenge systemic injustices and fight for your own patch of space under the free sun. But let’s leave that aside. Another interesting fact was that there were fewer people in front of the venue than I’d hoped for, and it was even worse inside the hall, where adolescents, HC veterans and dads and moms who had escorted their underage sons and daughters to this year’s spring peak of the live calendar (alongside Ortofest and smaller gigs around Ljubljana and the rest of Slovenia, of course) shared the space for switching off in equal measure. There was way too much emptiness below the stage, and soon after they’d checked the tuning of their guitars, the Australians Buried In Verona stepped out in front of a damn empty hall.

Buried In Verona are typical representatives of the stadium hardcore metalcore sound, but even though they’ve been honing and sharpening their senses since 2007, I’d have a hard time saying they’re real competition for their fellow countrymen Parkway Drive. The guitar duo of the round-faced Richie Newman and Daniel Gynn fire off perfect metalcore stereotypes, and the guitar riffs, along with the melodics and the typical breakdowns, serve up precious little character of their own. Bassist Sean Gynn did try to lean on the solid punch of drummer Shane O’Brien, but along with the sound, the band’s very spirit and drive crumbled from the first moment, since vocalist Brett Anderson tried in vain to warm up the thoroughly chilled and static Ljubljana crowd. Armed with the records Circle The Dead, Saturday Night Sever and The Notorious B.I.V., they served up a damn overused and worn-out combination of bouncy metalcore with throaty, raspy vocals and a counterweight of sugary, mellifluous catchiness, the kind that can give you advanced-stage diabetes in no time. The opening moments of Maybe Next Time do serve a decent HC punch and a bunch of insults aimed at a world Buried In Verona would love to wish away, but in this world of instant head-scratching at their opponents there’s precious little that would make music lovers slit their wrists. The Notorious B.I.V. is a record that bets on a hybrid blend of stadium-bouncy HC and sung, overused meter. Feeble applause and a few attempts at getting into it in the front rows, then a cold shower for the pretentious Brett, who was hoping for a total meltdown and the mosh of his life, and instead got stillness below the stage and a mined-out stage persona and authority as a successful frontman. The Descent, with its pop-ish catchiness, added a bit more of a wish to release the testosterone flows a little later, and the parade of pointlessness went on with attempts to win us over with the latest record, which has a rather weak bite factor. Forget What You Know, with its chorus »Save Yourself«, is a good hint that some gladly follow, off to the first beer they go, while a few overconfident juvenile fans of venting frustration at gigs give in a notch more to the calls that it’s time for a circle pit. But after a couple of near-falls down the Kino stairs, all such attempts fizzle out, and Buried In Verona get their concert mojo buried right in the Slovenian metropolis. Perceptions and the pointless synth meter of the track Four Years don’t fix the mood, and after the last whiny chorus it’s time to leave the Ljubljana stage – anything but in the manner of winners …

The Canadian soldiery of Obey The Brave are a completely different factor. Remember Despised Icon? Their punchy deathcore with a pinch of difference was fresh, if for no other reason than that two vocalists passed the mic back and forth. Now the more HC-leaning orator is the frontman of the evening’s second band! With his simple onstage sincerity and primal feel for good communication with the crowd, Alex Erian is the last in a line of good news I’d connect with Obey The Brave. They don’t reinvent lukewarm water, and the Montreal quintet has no illusions about reinventing the wheel, but they’ve got plenty of potent riffs and damn juicy punch. The record Young Blood is typical proof that Pantera’s riffs are evergreen, and with its “no tongue in cheek” attitude, HC is just right for combining with a southern temperament. This time southern sludge is in the service of northern sharpness, and the very first track, Lifestyle, awakens a completely different spirit in the previously sleepy Ljubljana crowd. The kids fall into a trance under Erian’s spell, and the outstanding balance of the two raw guitars, tamed by John Campbell and Greg Wood, complements nicely the rhythm section of bassist Miguel Lepage and Stevie Morotti’s drums. The recipe is way too simple – a noble sound paired with a metal sermon that you have to live your life with a solid steel spine and an upright stance. Obey The Brave sound like an HC steamroller, and their stage performance is damn different from the lukewarm standing around of the first part of the show! After Lifestyle comes the time for a bit more determination and metalcore sharpness, and It Starts Today cuts into the evening with the surgical precision of a testosterone hood. The dynamic below the stage grows, and the first bodies of young flyers sail off the stage onto the uneven floor of Šiška, daring to try their luck and the cooperation of the moshing brotherhood under the darkened stage. With Obey The Brave, Epitaph got a new trump card for winning over more metal-minded hearts, and Self Made proves that the Canadians have more chrome-plated, first-class titanium balls in their pants than some of their competitors from the south side of the Canadian border. There’s no shortage of jumps and spins onstage, and what impresses most is the heavily tattooed bassist Miguel, who, I don’t know why, visually reminds me of a cross between Mario Galunič, Lado Bizovičar and a convict on a hefty dose of steroids, while the dangerous spirit of the quintet blasts out of both speakers without a single weak or unprepared moment. After Garde La Tete Froide and the exceptional fury of Get Real, I’m completely convinced we’re getting the most brilliant performance of the night, even though three more acts are still ahead of us. But then, after this wonderful transfusion of young veteran blood, there’s little that could raise the quality level any higher. Live And Learn closes the set with sweet chaos, and the throaty dose of good cheer is crowned with thunderous applause and a hunger for more, but the Montreal quintet has to stick to a strict schedule that sadly doesn’t allow for the much-needed encore. We can only hope from the bottom of our hearts that we’ll get the brilliant Obey The Brave in Slovenia again soon, because they’re truly the best thing that has filled my ears in the last few years! The excitement about what came next, though, was a lot smaller.

Third to take the stage were the youngsters from Atlanta, the band Attila. Is there such a thing as death metal for fun? Sinister and interesting, I’d say, but first comes the lineup of two guitarists on the left and right of the stage (Chris Linck and Nate Salameh upgrade the quality level of metalcore or deathcore with nothing, neither in looks nor in the sound of their guitars), where you can easily overlook bassist Kalan Blehm, and drummer Sean Heenan is bizarrely hidden behind a stripped-down kit. Then, in front of the crowd, steps a cross between the big-footed Skočir and the pint-sized Green Day guy Billie Joe Armstrong – singer Chris Fronzak. Fronz has given up his long locks, and besides darker hair, the new fashion commandment on stage is a combination of leather pants and dark scarves. It’s like watching Scott Weiland, the former Velvet Revolver and STP guy, except there’s less melody this time, more guttural growling and, interestingly, for deathcore a rare number of actual pig squeals. The track Rage has a couple of good riffs, but Attila plow into the evening with a damn big reserve. Fronz still plays with the crowd and grabs eyes, but after his first address it all kind of sinks for me, because instead of a manly, raspy vocal the guy is capable only of Kermit-like croaking on a way too heavy dose of helium. Party core is thus the evening’s third act, and the commandment “Party at all costs” sadistically continues with calls for moshing and circle pits over the tectonic faults of the Kino floor. The ankles are damn endangered, and after a couple of people losing their footing you wonder whether any of this is even necessary or makes sense. Attila are simply entertainers, and Nothing Left To Say sounds like Lamb Of God on a broken manual gearbox. Besides a thousand worn-out riffs and pauses for breakdowns, the theater of bizarreness Fronz puts on continues in exactly the same vein. The scarves are redundant and exist only to be passed around into hands and pockets, and Fronz grunts his pig-farm song from the stage at the front lines of his disciples. Temper sounds already heard (as if continuing the previous two tracks), and the presentation of the album Rage is followed by a track from the album Outlawed. Sex, Drugs & Violence is sonically boring deathcore, but the repetition of worn-out phrases still gets total acceptance from the kids, who this time crowded the stage more, even though we didn’t get any major lift in sound or performance quality. A chaotic dose of beaten-up death metal and deathcore then leads us even deeper into the bowels of hell. Party With The Devil is just right for continuing the parade of emptiness, and »666 party with the devil, bitch« suits the guys and girls who evidently find more essence in precise meter and syncopated rhythms than I do … White Lightning and the closing Payback leave me suspiciously cold as well, and I suspect there’s as much essence in modern metalcore as there’s spinal support in quality diarrhea, if I may be a little anally colorful.

The fourth act of the five-part evening goes to Chelsea Grin. This Utah band, who took their name from the hooligan act of slicing rivals’ mouths with knives and sell a Joker-like smile of pain under the deathcore brand, bet on the progress factor. Their latest record, the album Evolve, was supposed to prove that they’ve developed into a potent band over a good seven years, and I held on to that hope right up until the first bars of the opening track The Foolish One. Deathcore has become a real screen for displaying mediocrity, and in the gray zone of completely benign and truly idealess bands there’s plenty that made this night, for me too, drift ever closer to a musical sewer and further from the idea of a perfect mosh pit party. Instead of progressive elements there’s a lot of technical wankery and dry-as-dust math. With the many, far too frequent lineup changes, the band has become completely faceless. Stocky singer Alex Koehler (he damn well resembles the deathcore version of Rammstein’s frontman) is backed by the band’s longest-serving members, bassist David Flinn and guitarists Daniel Jones and Jake Harmond. As a third guitar wanker they’ve roped in Jason Richardson, a talented young lead guitarist who, as I found out afterward, proved his talent in All Shall Perish, but this time is evidently paying his bills with a more pointless guitar routine, in which his talent can’t fully come alive. I stay cold toward the drumming pedantry of the latest addition, drummer Pablo Viveros, too. After the first two tracks of the night sound completely identical, I finally get the main trump card of the latest record Evolve, the track Lilith, which sounds like a demonized version of Craddle Of Filth with deathcore polyps. Rather than risk a hemorrhoid or a final resignation of my common-sense center, I temporarily left the parade of emptiness and idealess-ness, though not before witnessing the unfortunate head-first stage dive of one of those heroes willing to risk even their health and life in the name of bad fun, testing the firmness of the floor of Ljubljana’s temple of culture with the crown of their head … The safe shelter of the lobby offered a bit of support to my aching legs, while in the hall the concert farce of generically tuned music went on, music some people give more credit than it deserves. That last bit is just my observation, make no mistake, and of course it’s only a matter of taste, or a lack of taste or discernment among the defenders of a faded core genre spinning in ever tighter small concentric circles.

After almost three quarters of an hour of torturing every sense, Chelsea Grin decide to bid Ljubljana farewell, and at last it’s time for the prep before the final, big act of this Mosh Party in our sub-Alpine corner of paradise (or Hell, whichever you prefer …). Can you imagine what you’d get if you threw a bit of nu metal, HC, Fred Durst and even Korn into a genetic blender, and allowed yourself to keep just the right dose of mouthiness and daring that made New York a justified cradle of true, orthodox and above all rock-solid HC? Emmure are the closest thing, and given that the band has been breaking ground since 2003, you can’t accuse them of lacking know-how and mileage. Five full-length records and a more than six-year bond with Victory Records show that Frankie Palmeri on the mic, Jesse Ketive and Mike Mullholland on guitars, bassist Mark Davis and drummer Mark Costillo are the guarantee of a good finale to an otherwise rather lukewarm and slightly watered-down evening. 4 Poisons 3 Words from the record Speaker Of Dead sets completely new standards for the night, and instead of a deathcore attack, Emmure bet on the metalcore rapping of the charismatic Frankie, who borrowed his moves and choice of outfits from the infamous Fred Durst of Limp Bizkit (besides the hairdresser and the tailor, the two guys evidently share a choreographer and dance teacher too). The nu-metal serenade of brutality continues with the track Solar Flare Homicide, and Emmure command the whole climate in Kino Šiška with a confident performance and a good sound, one even Slipknot would be proud of. Instead of wimpy nonsense, Emmure string together potent core rapping, and instead of moldy trifles they offer you a bloody dose of low-frequency tones and dance rhythms that would suit any Korn enthusiast. Protoman leaves a recognizable stamp on the latest record Slave To The Game, with which Emmure, it seems, are bidding Victory a punchy farewell. From the second album The Respect Issue the track Sound Wave Superior then roars in, and Frankie, instead of rapping and mellifluousness, plows in a more guttural way and stokes the passions in Ljubljana’s Kino. The anticipation builds and the air gets thick as the fans’ battle lines close ranks, but despite the plentiful space, the American greats don’t reach any explosive finale on this night of parading. Partly for that reason (and partly for lack of time ahead of an increasingly looming Friday work schedule), I left Kino Šiška earlier than planned – so as not to spoil the good taste in my mouth with overtiredness, burnout and loose ends.

A solid finish thus remains somewhat the exclusive domain of the evening’s headliners, and Ljubljana didn’t hear any major heights that day. The party was a success, but it’s hard to call it a banquet we’ll remember for long. A couple of dishes were edible, some even very tasty, and I’d gladly have gone back for seconds on those. But I have to admit that anyone with a pinch of healthy critical sense saw and heard more mediocrity and bizarre genericness that day than a revolutionary spirit of innovation and progression. And expecting the latter is pointless anyway. We supposedly survived the end of the world, so is there no point in worrying anymore about the quality of content and the weight of criticism? Have we really reached the edge beyond which there’s room only for shallowness, superficiality and shallow repetition of worn-out phrases? Everything is allowed in the service of capital, and the pitcher goes to the well so many times that it finally breaks. This mini festival of unfortunate mosh is proof that the bowl that should hold the spiritual substrate of our times is damn cracked, and the youth on whom the world is supposed to stand in the future increasingly succumb to form and outside fashion commandments rather than to the weight of substance. That’s one way to survive the times we live in, but I ask myself: is bare survival enough to let us give up on a full life altogether? Noise is the answer instead, and after the noise the caravan travels on, while a brood of young milk-toothers counts down the moments to the next meet-up, where they can show off some new little drawing on their skin, a new piercing or a shirt, and the music is, of course, of secondary importance, right?

Setlist

BURIED IN VERONA:

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