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Whitechapel Concert Review
Over the past few years, I’ve repeatedly missed the opportunity to see performances of one of extreme metal’s longest-tenured and most respected artists—Suffocation. In the meantime I’ve managed to see Immolation once and Skinless three times, but something always prevented me from completing the trifecta of New York death metal. So when Suffocation announced their Blood Apocalypse tour—one of their first for Nuclear Blast and the last before the release of their next album, ‘Blood Oath’—I felt duty-bound to attend their gig at The Pearl Room on Easter evening. Sweetening the package are Psycroptic, whom I’d interviewed two weeks earlier, but not seen perform, as well as Decrepit Birth, Veil of Maya, and Whitechapel.
However, I didn’t quite realize what I was getting myself into, and only discovered the full magnitude of my commitment upon arriving at the venue. More than just a Suffocation show, The Pearl Room this Easter weekend was the site of Gotham City Metalfest, a two-day affair that combined Suffocation’s Blood Apocalypse with Terror’s Atticus Metal Tour and a swathe of regional openers. For this weekend, both The Pearl Room proper and neighboring Capone’s bar threw open their doors for a two-stage exhibition of approximately 30 bands.
On the one hand, GCMF was an admirable coup of schedule juggling and promotional management; on the other, it was an exhausting gauntlet of breakdowns and texting teenage scenesters. Although I don’t usually feel strong camaraderie with the average metal show crowd, GCMF took me to levels of dissociation I’d not experienced since high school, hanging out at the local VFW to see a friend’s straightedge band. From my spot in the first few rows, I could see a sparse handful of sympathetic faces (usually framed by long hair) in a wash of emover hairdos, copiously applied eyeliner, and baby fat cheeks. Inward growls and pig squeals were belted out tirelessly by a clique of young guys towards the front, including to Yes’s ‘Owner of a Lonely Heart’, which would have been amusing if it hadn’t been so predictably their response. Undoubtedly, this wasn’t my crowd, and it may seem unfair not to give them a fair chance, but by the evening’s end my skepticism was validated in full. Besides, it should be self-evident that pubescent giggling girls don’t coincide with the murderous lust of Frank Mullen.
After my arrival around 5 pm, the first band to the stage was Psycroptic. Due to the festival, Blood Apocalypse’s regular running order was shuffled to accommodate new bands, which put a five-hour, five-band gap between Psycroptic and Suffocation, but the former’s performance alone would have made the night worthwhile. As one of the most bafflingly technical guitarists in metal today, Joe Haley sets a high bar for his live show, while his brother Dave is nearly as frenzied on percussion. Filling out the lineup are Cameron Grant on bass and Jason Peppiatt on vocals, whose grab-bag of timbres is somewhat polarizing among fans.
Joe had said in our interview that he tries not to write music that’s impossible to achieve in a live setting, especially with respect to overdubs, so the majority of Psycroptic’s music consists of a single guitar part. When compared to the other bands on the bill—After The Burial’s two eight-strings, Whitechapel’s three guitarists, and the four shredding machines from Suffocation and Decrepit Birth—it might seem that Psycroptic were overmatched. However, supported by Cameron’s nimble basswork, Joe and company managed to do quite well for themselves over a half-hour set, laying down a handful of new tracks with impressive accuracy. In person, Haley is soft-spoken, but on stage his speed picking and unorthodox scalar patterns (which seemed to rely considerably on open strings) more than make up for his shy presence. Dave’s percussion, which can seem a little scattered on record, was also a marvel to watch—with few signs of exertion and fewer flourishes, he breezed through complex transitions and convoluted riffs of his own. Of course, with Psycroptic the real x-factor is always the vocals, and in the past (i.e. with Matthew Chalk) this was something of a problem during gigs. Jason, however, transitioned easily from low growls to high-pitched shouts and everything in between. His Padawon-style haircut and shirtless torso were apparently turnoffs to the girls in the front row, but in all other respects Psycroptic put on a fine performance.
Next up was Decrepit Birth, the Californian crew reborn on their last record, ‘Diminishing Between Worlds’. Once a fairly standard brutal tech-death outfit, the band’s last album marked a transitions to more progressive songwriting and (sort of) melodic soloing that has garnered favorable comparisons to latter-day Death. I, personally, have never quite caught the mania, but was looking forward to their live show regardless, and there they did not disappoint. The clear instrumental leader of the group is Matt Sotelo, the burly guitarist whose hyperspeed riffing has defined the band since its inception. The other musicians, though clearly talented and not without solo moments of their own (especially new guitarist Dan Eggers), were more of a background presence to Sotelo, who was himself subordinate to the band’s vocalist, Bill Robinson. Clearly the oldest performer in the band, Robinson looked like a windswept and sun-scorched Moses—a full beard, raggedy hair half in dreadlocks, and a creased, aquiline visage. When not belching out the band’s metaphysical imagery, he would gesture at the audience as if he were invoking a spirit, open his arms to us like a messiah, and generally put on quite an exhibition. His casual banter dealt alternately with being God and having created us all, and being old and demanding that we obey his commands, which were usually to makes some noise for ourselves, etc.
Their set seemed to draw heavily from their newest album (aside from ‘Condemned to Nothingness’), and therefore had no lack of epic guitar solos. These were traded between Sotelo and Eggers, with the former handling the lion’s share, and both tossed off shredding licks and high-speed tapping with ease. Over their 30 minutes, these solo sections seemed to blur together, as did many of the band’s songs, but they certainly have improved since their first album and have a live act I wouldn’t mind seeing ago.
Following them was the St. Paul quintet After the Burial, the first Sumerian Records artist of the evening for me, though by no means the last. As they set up, the band’s vocalist came out in a white t-shirt and planted a black crate at middle stage, giving me flashbacks to Suicide Silence, whose Mitch Lucker does precisely the same thing. After the Burial’s lyrics aren’t quite so relentlessly hateful, however, and their guitarists’ use of eight-stringers brings a greater dynamic to their sound. Indeed, Justin Lowe and Trent Hafdahl have serious technical ability and displayed it eagerly, alternating from 16th-note subdivision breakdowns (groovily supported by their bassist, Lee Foral) to harmonized sweep arpeggios five strings up. If anything, their style is a bit more redolent of Misery Signals than the other deathcore bands on the bill—breakdowns interspersed with some melodic death riffing and interludes of strummed major chords with melodic leads. And the youths in the audience did seem to love it, some of them screaming for favorite songs (‘Fingers Like Daggers’) and others getting the first real pit action of the night going. Ultimately, though, the band’s eight-strings seemed like an excuse to have both ultra-dropped breakdown chugs and the aforementioned minor sweeps, sometimes simultaneously. Relatively little effort was made to join the two registers, and as Born of Osiris and Whitechapel showed soon afterwards, an extra two bottom strings aren’t necessary to make a crowd of teenagers run wild.
Next to the stage was the Veil of Maya, a Chicago-based quartet and another from Sumerian’s ranks. As such, they cater mostly to the same deathcore crowd as their peers, but also aspire to be ‘progressive’. This isn’t too surprising, given the band’s name (a Cynic song in addition to a philosophical reference) as well as their artwork (their banners’ color palate and spread looked almost exactly like the cover of ‘Traced in Air’). It seems that most deathcore bands nowadays tag themselves as such when they really mean technical, but in some senses Veil of Maya’s claim is merited.
In addition to the expected breakdowns and staccato riffs, Marc Okubo’s guitarwork includes experimental effects-based loops and flighty solos. Too, their song structures aren’t quite as predictable as the average band built around breakdowns, which helped disrupt the monotony that had set in during After the Burial. The house overheads were almost all turned out for this set, so the band was backlit only by the two floor rigs they had set up facing their banners. As Okubo played, his body coiling like a whipcord, my camera could barely make out his bared teeth.
Filling the stage after them was Whitechapel, the first band whose set exceeded 40 minutes that night. After Veil of Maya’s relatively open arrangements and scattering of melody, Whitechapel’s three guitar assault and tough-guy demeanor was the spark the crowd had been waiting for. With six members, Whitechapel couldn’t help but look frantic on the stage, especially boasting members like the menacing Phil Bozeman on vocals, water-spewing Gabe Crisp on bass (his expulsions timed to the music like a wrestler showing off during pre-match routines) and the wild-eyed guitarist Alex Wade. Particularly during such frantically percussive tracks as ‘Father of Lies’, the front half of the audience surged to the fore, waving their arms and laying about with elbows. The band incited them further, shouting to the pit and jumping in unison, which of course prompted the audience to do the same. Inexplicably, they also had two guest vocalists emerge from the wings to deliver selected passages, and no one in the audience seemed to know whom they were.
The band has come under some fire for having three guitarists in a genre where sometimes one is enough, and at many points during Whitechapel’s set it was indeed excessive. Much like After the Burial, it seems that bands are seeking new ways to differentiate themselves these days, even as they play more and more similar music. That said, Whitechapel’s take on the deathcore genre was fairly unique on this bill (not too unlike Job For A Cowboy), and those few times when all guitars were independently engaged did sound fairly impressive.
Still, it was small disappointment to see their set end, not most because I had a camera to protect; with Whitechapel done, the only band left before Suffocation was Born of Osiris. The youngest band on the bill, Born of Osiris have grown exponentially over the past two years from merely another member of the Northwest suburban scene (which also spawned Oceano) to opening for Summer Slaughter to direct main-stage support to Suffocation on this fest’s closing day.
With the second stage wrapped up (headliner See You Next Tuesday had played before Whitechapel), the main stage audience swelled to its largest of the night, the main floor of the venue being comfortably full. As Born of Osiris set up, I noticed the girls in the front row getting antsy, occasionally emitting gasps of joy, and it soon became clear that they were waiting for the band’s vocalist, Ronnie Canizaro, to emerge. For this they had to wait until Born of Osiris’ set began, when the entire band emerged from behind their screens to greet the audience. At that point, the girls began to cheer shrilly and leap up and down as if they were 12-year-olds adulating over High School Musical. Every gesture, facial expression, or movement of Ronnie, even those that left trails of spittle on his cheek, reduced these girls to gobsmacked adoration, and when he came to stand near them they reached out to caress his feet. The rest of the band was a mixed bunch, ranging from fashionably gauged earrings and band T’s to a ripped Iowa hoodie and bed-head hair for one of their guitarists (who, it should be noted, looked rather disinterested through most of the set).
Their crowd interaction, technical performances, and general stage presence (that one guitarist excepted) were all strong, belying their youth. Keyboardists in metal bands often seem out of place, but Joe Buras was comfortable in his limited role, singing along without a mic and ranging away from his keyboard when he didn’t have a part to play. Many in the audience were familiar with their material, and during tracks like ‘Bow Down’, dozens of voices shouted the opening words. Ronnie’s front row fan club were nodding their heads out of time with teary eyes and the moshpit was, though not half what it had been during Whitechapel, still energetic.
When finally they were done, Suffocation’s crew set up speedily. A couple mics were checked, the banner raised (to scattered cheers), the drums warmed up, and in that 15-minute span, nearly three quarters of the audience left. They didn’t merely leave the stage for the bar or merch area—they headed straight out the door and didn’t return. By the time Suffocation took the stage, a fan could have easily walked from the back of the venue to the foot of the stage without trouble.
The audience that was left was comprised mostly of the expected faithful—middle-aged guys in Suffocation shirts, long-haired loners wearing Burzum—with a small scattering of younger faces. Conversations were struck up almost immediately between strangers, all of them amazed at how the venue had cleared out. Some felt vindicated—“Fuckin’ kids. Scared of what real metal sounds like,”—while others, such as myself, were simply disappointed by the lack of respect.
In the past handful of years, a strange disconnect has risen between the band that drives a tour’s creation and the bands that drive its success. Although Suffocation were quite diplomatic—aside from a Frank asking, “What happened to all the others? Did the teenagers have a 10 pm curfew?”—there was clearly a disconnect between the death metal and deathcore bands on the bill. Most bands saluted their touring mates at some point in their set, but I still heard Suffocation’s name applauded far less than others such as Whitechapel or the like. Admittedly, this day of the tour coincided with a deathcore-themed fest, but if two-thirds of any audience leaves before the headlining band takes the stage, something more than coincidence is afoot.
Nonetheless, Suffocation put all this aside and delivered the goods as only New Yorkers can. Grounded by Mike Smith’s patent blast (without a doubt one of metal’s most distinctive and often-imitated drummers), Terrance Hobbs and Guy Marchais chugged and ripped their way through the band’s classic material. Particularly impressive were their shredding chops and Terrance’s deft use of his tremolo arm to accent his solos. After dealing with a brief technical issue (the only problem on an otherwise very well produced evening), Derek Boyer settled into a finger-picking groove, literally setting his bass upright on the ground and crouching down to play it like a crustacean. Frank Mullen held court at center stage, sticking his tongue out and making chopping motions during the band’s (judiciously placed) breakdowns, then bellowing out lyrics of psychotic mass murder and religious profanity with gusto. Between songs he was personable and casual, reminiscing about an old venue called The Thirsty Whale with a few audience members, thanking us for coming out on the Easter holiday “or whatever”, and delivering extended introductions to such songs as ‘Bind, Torture, Kill’. From a first-person perspective, he outlined how he would capture a victim (“you”), keep him in a shed, brutalize him, cauterize wounds, and generally keep him in a miserable state for 25 years before delivering the death blow and dismembering the corpse. These are the products of the voices he evidently hears: “But I’ve learned to live with that. It’s alright.” Of course, the audience simply loved this, and would laugh and cheer him along in his diatribes. “Let ‘em KNOW,” one said repeatedly.
Frank also mentioned some upcoming events to mark the band’s 20th anniversary, as well as their co-headlining slot on the upcoming Summer Slaughter tour. He also spoke briefly about ‘Blood Oath’, and thanked the fans for their support since Suffocation’s earliest days. He also reminisced briefly about their first shows and the enduring passion for creating heavy music that has driven them since the beginning.
Their setlist for this tour runs approximately: ‘Liege of Inveracity’, ‘Thrones of Blood’, ‘Brood of Hatred’, ‘Mental Hemorrhage’, ‘Infecting the Crypts’, ‘Abomination Reborn’, ‘Pierced from Within’, ‘Effigy of the Forgotten’, ‘Bind Torture Kill’, and ‘Funeral Inception’. They played for a scant 45 minutes, which was undoubtedly a disappointment to some of their fans, but I heard no one complaining as the lights came up. Suffocation’s performance, professionalism, and energy had made their wait worthwhile, and members of the band came forward to greet people, shake eager hands, and talk with old fans. As other fads come and go, this resilience to change and connection to their roots has sustained Suffocation through 20 years; to hear Frank tell it, they might have another 20 in them.
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