BUCKLE

Went to Dottie's Friday night to check out Bob and nearly soiled my drawers. Opening act Buckle came out in a haze of smoke and proceeded to reduce the slub to sinders. Consisting of three subhumans from the Carolinas, Buckle erected a massive wall of sound from their dual effected guitars and spastic drums. After many minutes of brain-eroding ultranoise they smashed the damn thing to the ground. It was like being caught in a shitstorm with your pants down. Typically, a large portion of the Dottie's crowd reacted like Japanese villagers fleeing from Gadzilla. But make no mistake, rock 'n roll at Memorial Drive dive had not sounded so good since the Tora! festival.

(Excerpted from the forthcoming collection, Even Damnation is Poisoned With Rainbows, a compilation of personal critiques in the theory, practice, and context of contemporary out-music by Jeremy Koren.)

What buckle does is beyond the realm of logical musical contemplation. Thunder and lightning are interesting as physical phenomena; their extrapolation into infinite dialogues of tonal and rhythmic intercourse is something else altogether - a temporal place where the holy and demonic crisscross in decidedly non-random flurries of chemically-excited musical grace and swagger. Buckle is two people. Has been three, may be so again. Their horoscopes are irrelevant. They play drums and cymbals, guitars and amplifiers, signal poisoned by codices of circuitry and the drama of audience proximity, rendered dutifully against that cold black canvas of the North Carolina night. That .they are white, and that they have chosen as their medium a form a thousand times diluted by ghosts of Thurston Moore and Roky Erikson before them speaks volumes of their fearlessness and disposal of the significance of context. And what of their moniker? While its adoption may have been a matter as frivolous as choosing Rolling Rock over Olympia, to ignore its presence would render any conversation such as this incomplete. The word Buckle triggers certain channels in my brain: an ancient, abandoned warehouse on the shore of the James River shuddering and dissolving in the wake of monstrous earth tides, or perhaps the cohesion implicit when a steel prod pierces the womb of a well-worn leather belt. Either way it all makes sense. Buckle’s music is a treble-ridden crossroads of union and collapse. To see them perform is to engage a living, breathing thing - as tactile as a drunken fuck or a sobering beating - and a gentle microcosm hinges on their every maneuver.

There has almost always been a steady scene of non-commercial, non-"song" oriented rock. From the bizarre arranging of Esquivel and Van Dyke Parks(who co-wroke the "Smile" and eventually released the "Smiley Smile" records with the Beach Boys) to the invention of a noisier "psychedelic" guitar sound with The Pink Floyd(Syd Barret) and on into the late 70's and 80's with Sonic Youth, Boredoms, and various John Zorn compositions and groups.

man, forget this stuff. Alls I know is it is relieving to see folks rocking out for fun. I've rocked with these kids and they know whats going on. Two guitars, tons of pedals, matching brands of guitars and amps, and huge drums. All sounding like so much more, you'd swear there were organs, synthesizers, or possibly violins and cellos cranking through distortion pedals and oscillating leslie speaker cabinets. They had songs, played shows, back together with a new purpose: Improvisational drones using the loud--louder(or bad cop--really shitty cop) dynamic.

So get ready, rock fanz and enjoy the sounds and sights of dirty drone-noise accompained by slide projectors filtered through color wheels and a smoke machine. eat it up.

While we waited for them to arrive, we sucked on cheap beer and flicked ashes across the table into a jar. Gus spit a mouthful back into the can then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. I was closer, so I reached into the fridge and handed him another. They were suppose to be here for the show by eight, but it was closer to nine. They had about a three hour drive, so when dinner had rolled around Gus and I were thinking more about dessert.
They were bringing dessert. We knew not to get too excited. Even promises usually turned out to be dead ends. Still, it had been two weeks since our last score, and everything sounded good when I had spoken to Chuck just hours before.
When the knock finally came, Gus' eyes opened wide and he nearly upset my beer trying to simultaneously escape his chair and navigate the long series of doorways between the kitchen and the front door.
They filed into the kitchen and all hurriedly took seats around the table. None of them removed thier coats. We exchanged greetings. Roy withdrew his wallet and from one o the pockets pulled out a small plastic bag. I recognized the bas as the same collectors use to prevent the oxidation of coins. He handed me the anticipated plastic parcel.
I dumped its contents onto a dinner plate and ground up the yellow and brown discolored rocks with the convex side of a spoon. I used a utility knife to divide the pile into five even lines. Henry leaned over and said he didn't want any, so I replied and made four. With a rolled bill we each took our turns polishing our toot shoots.
All five of us crammed into Chuck's van and screamed to my house where I swapped my windbreaker for a warmer jacket. We each slugged back a beer and I cut four more lines. The straw went in the opposite direction this time, and I took the last one. We pissed and then put on our coats. Now we were ready.

I felt like a freight train, or like one had just hit me. While we soared through town I felt the raging climax of release right after loading up. I forgot about Liz. I forgot about classes. I forgot rent. Nothing but sugar coursed through me. It was quiet on the way to the show.. We were all too preoccupied with feeling good to waste it on conversation.
Upon arrival, I noticed Liz. Gus' current headache, Tara, was there too. I guess both our hearts plunged because we glanced at each other with the same miserable grin. Chuck, Roy, and Henry still smiled. They were jacked and didn't give a damn about anything.
Buckle unloaded their guitars, their amps, their pedals. They pulled the snare, the stool, the stands, the strobe light, suitcases of cords, and a carpet from the van. And hauled it inside. Gus and I looked on as they jacked it, taped down, turned on. No one knew what to expect. A cathode ray was burning a white hole through the phosphur screen in the tv they'd dropped on a stack of crates. They ran their gear through a third rate p.a. It either howled feedback or you couldn't hear it. The kids were packed into the small room. It was getting stuffy. They squirmed. Some of them plugged their ears with their forefingers. Others forced toilet paper into their ear canals. The rest just stared with stupid stoic faces like only culturally undernourished college kid can stare. Buckle pried and pulled at their guitars. They pulled some more. Then they pried again. They impatient crowd started groaning. The screeching was dragging everyone out of their comfort zones.
Buckle had everyone nice and uncomfortable, so they stopped tuning. Heath counted off on his hickory. Doug crashed through all six strings straight to the pickguard and then down. Gary joined with less mercy. Last Train to Asheville was underway, The wailing melody and thunderous pounding had difficulty leaving the room.. It bounced around inside out heads and then out again, meeting another steady barrage of speed-on-Tangerine Dream. Heath just kept weaving in and then out again, striking, whaling. I could have set my watch by his time.. Gary cried truth into the mic, but no one heard him.. They couldn't hear him: everyone was too fucking riveted to do anything but get lost in wonder. The drone dragged us all below the floor and then back up through the roof while Heath's bass drum pounded us senseless. Labradford might be the sedative, but Buckle is temptation. I wanted to float mindlessly among the harmonic whispers. I wanted to let go. But the intensity wouldn't let me! Something ferocious visited Blacksburg, something none of us understood. There was something new, something clean and entirely composed among the noise and thrusting. Buckle tortured all of us with our ignorance, with our simplicities. As we suffered, they screamed louder. While we clenched out guts they speared us deeper.
Buckle opened our eyes and peeled wallpaper. They revealed to each of us a much greater magnitude of truth.
They closed with Let's Get Explosive, but had really run us over with the last train to Hell. When the strobe cut, the room went black. Amps and pedal were switched off: the buzzing faded away. We stood weak on our knees and with gouged senses. None of us was less than baffled. Breathing was heavy. The speed was working nicely now. I felt a bead of sweat run down my neck and below the shit collar onto my spine. I that instant of sacrosanct quiet I glimpsed at the tv and smiled as I imagined its tight ray bursting through the glass and cleanly slicing everyone in half. They didn't deserve this.
...............Anonymous Rockymous