Sure you can hatefully despise late-capitalism, loathe the brain-dulling gentrification that keeps devouring each and every tiny portion of this city, consider an appalling aftermath of pastiche-generation what you see in every trendy bar these days; the lousy post-modern-yet-frightful-vintage-deco-unified-by-wi-fi-invisible-joints; but this is London, good shit happens amidst all the pigeons’ fecal matter, illegal minicabs and the the-smelly-filthy-fryer-reeked-atmosphere which spawns from Soho to Brixton.
Camden is that spot of counterfeit bullshit, flooded with rambling tards who want to convince you about doing yet another tattoo. I have my quota, thanks mate. Another day is fucking gone and I’m just stepping up those Morning Crescent stairs, drinking black coffee because I do have to work on Saturdays. People everywhere, a ratrace of plastic bags, queues left and right, Electric Ballroom is sold out, Big Business are on stage not particularly spirited since they have been playing two times each night for this tour. Oh, the sweaty, herniated life of a rockstar. Punishing rhythms, it’s weirdo-hair-evening between loud amps and turbulent guitars; joyful noise, people shaking, rocking their heads back and forth in a sign of approval, waiting for Crover and Buzz to show up and complete what Jared and Cody have already started, a picaresque novel of tasty heaviness.
Two drummers. Ear-assaulting riffs. The funny thing is, despite the fact that most people consider Melvins to be like these forever mainstream discredited guys, who clearly deserve a wider recognition for having influenced 4000 bands (some of those flat out millionaires) and 25 sub-sub-subgenres, they have a cult status. You can sense that by just taking a look around in a congested Electric Ballroom, an all-aged crowd with kids and old blokes who haven’t turned to dad-rock just yet, altogether in a canvas of rock entropy. A charming composure of unseriousness, where ill-fated-born-to-lose grown men trade gargantuan japes of feedback, no-mishaps-found drum solos and a relentless joy for loudness. What perhaps is confusing at every songs’ start then turns into these perfect logical assertions of noise, as a ultrapadoxical example of how an impalpable paralanguage can be perceived by different individuals simultaneously with pleasure. There’s pleasure, ecstasy in Melvins after all these years. Dale and Buzz can call whoever they want to join their ranks and it works flawlessly. Amazing. Alchemy. They’re still beyond good.