Converge
Live @ Magnolia. 13/08/2014

I can't sleep. I absolutely have to write something. I'm exhausted, but for them, I'm happy to spend some late-night words. Even at 3 in the morning. They are the Converge. Second time in seven days, but I saw the concert in London, tonight I wanted to experience it. Fourth personal appointment with them, yet every time it feels like the first, the chills and emotion before the massacre when you see Jacob Bannon smiling during the soundcheck. You know what to expect. If then Jacob enjoys joking with the audience and starting a brief screaming contest, well, it's clear that the gloomy evening will be breathless. Complete immersion and apnea, as if narcotized and involved with your whole being in their performance.

The evening started a few hours earlier, when I arrived by car with two other adventure companions and would find waiting for me that jaunty guy in the Circle Takes The Square t-shirt aka Proggen94 and his friend Vittorio. Just enough time to calibrate on recognizing t-shirts Loma Prieta/More Than Life/group of that nice girl Kathleen, a chat and then we proceed with the sacred inviolable pre-concert ritual of lousy beer. I must say this is where the happy notes of the evening begin, from the Polish quality of the live shows of "No Omega/Birds In Row/Touché Amoré" we rose to such a Superior. Never heard of it, but with a name like that it can only inspire confidence. Between a delightful sip and a collateral discussion with expletives about the bassist of Birds In Row, the Okkultokrati, whom Bannon jokingly calls “The Cult of Karate”, start playing. Given the astonishing news to Proggen that they are a Norwegian crust band from Oslo and not an Italian group with the controversial combo “Occulto + Krauts”, we head to the tent set up by Magnolia to cope with a very strange rain you'd never expect in August. The guys on stage are on fire, a bit linear, but they start to warm up the atmosphere with that Motorhead and Discharge sound under the influence of narcotics that makes you headbang and reminds you of the good old days of the “tupatupatupa” ignorance. You need stuff like this every now and then.
A few minutes break is useful to learn that the SIAE is in the hands of that darned Gino Paoli and on stage, as punctual as a Swiss watch, come the Martyrdod. Swedish with crust in their blood, they follow the Okkultokrati's proposal with a bit more personality and experience, as well as some not-at-all-bad melodic hints that manage to vary the offer a bit and keep the pieces' tempo quite high. The first signs of pogo and circle-pit appear, but the seasoned crowd knows they have to restrain themselves. Energy needs to be conserved. Sure winner of the Palme d'Or out of competition (where the competition are Nate, Kurt, Ben, and Jacob) to their singer. Slurred English, probably mixed with a straight outta Goteborg dialect, between a d-beat gallop and hops worthy of Peter in the Heidi opening theme brings to a conclusion a show full of energy and passion, where the precious Brigitte Bardot model sunglasses peek out multiple times to reassure us of his possible intoxication. A whirlwind half hour, and the Martyrdod begin to incite the crowd, shouting "Converge, Converge, Converge."

Me, Proggen, and Vittorio look at each other. We're in the front row. For them, the first-ever time seeing Converge. I warn them: it won't be easy. My other companions remain in the background, by now the wall of people that has risen is quite consistent. Ben and Nate are the first to come on, toying with the little song that sounds very La Vie En Rose in the background. In your skin, you just know that overused cliché of calm before the storm is damned true. And yes, I feel so rebellious as to use the word damned (it's irony, lest we forget). Kurt and, particularly, Jacob make us wait. When Bannon arrives on stage, it's full ovation. And you say. They will start slow. They will gear up. Here’s the thing I love about Converge: they don't have a low-gear speed. They launch with "Eagles Become Vultures". And it's already over. Pogo, crowd-surfing, sweat distilled in its purest form. Our screams, his screams. He is right there, just within reach, annihilating you while tearing you apart with “our eagles become our vultures”. The others? Chapeau. Ballou is someone who shreds riffs from the six strings, disintegrates it, and is of murderous precision. Newton boils the bass and provides the backing vocals in case Bannon's voice wasn’t already incendiary enough. Behind, the conductor is a smiling Ben Koller. He’s having fun, you see it, he dictates the rhythms that inevitably make you fall into the most frenzied headbanging, thrashing about between a foot landing on your neck, flying shoes, and elbows just brushing you, just to avoid a scene like the Gypsy in Snatch.
They play for a fifty minutes. If it were up to me, they could start with "Halo In a Haystack" and reach the end of "All We Love We Leave Behind" without issues. My body somewhat argues with neurons’ unhealthy idea, but I don't care. Meanwhile, they keep stabbing you just to not let you breathe even a second there in the trenches. And down goes a "Dark Horse" with its breakdown heavy as a boulder, the desperate fury of "Aimless Arrow", an inner demons chase meeting a speeding train in "Trespasses". They enjoy watching the frenzy in the pit, between shoving, battering, and adrenaline. Then, you see Bannon there. Between a pose of a perfect hardcore kid and throwing the mic, you admire how he puts everything he has in his body into it. The attitude. The passion. The energy. The suffering. The worn face on an intense "All We Love We Leave Behind" that drags you down with it, but above all, the performance in the evening’s gem. The 9 minutes of "Grim Heart/Black Rose." Pure dramatic acting and catharsis, up to the escalation led by the trusted companions with that restless hesitating between bass and guitar, foreshadowing a ready return to the exquisite sonic agony lived right there in front, after you finally managed just to catch those two seconds of breath needed for survival.

The air is electric. Very electric. They pick a bit from everywhere from "Jane Doe" onward, too bad there’s no room for some trip back past "Petitioning The Empty Sky". But when those annihilating bolts à la "Concubine", à la "Cutter" or "The Broken Vow" hit you, you realize you can only let yourself fall into the claustrophobic slowdown of "Heaven In Her Arms". Bannon thanks, talks, knows everyone hangs on his screams. Nate "plants" nonchalantly the curse of the night (Germano Mosconi Award for him), and Jacob ironically pretends to understand “crap instead of great”, simulating devilish voices. They are in form. Solid in leaving scorched earth. Once again, realizations are made among smiles (the only plausible form of communication) of mine, Proggen’s, and Vittorio’s that we are witnessing the performance of artists who are unreachable for almost all groups in the scene. Actually, let’s remove the almost.

The curtain, you know where it will close. One last light. Last Light. And what am I telling you for? Shouted at the top of everyone’s lungs present, with their hearts in hand. United in the splendid creature, Converge. Those words repeated like a magic formula. Keep breathing, Keep living, Keep Searching, Keep Pushing On, Keep Bleeding, Keep Healing, Keep Fading, Keep Shining On. Then they have a last gift for us, prolonging and accelerating the end of the piece, like every sacred concert closure should be. So with your last remaining strength, you try to absorb as much as possible of that visceral, so genuine..so.. I can't even find the words. It’s pure emotion, I think.
The lights rise. Bannon stays to greet us, I extend my hand, he shakes it, says something I can’t understand in the noise. Seemed like he was catechizing me, wouldn’t have been surprised if a communion wafer appeared from good Jacob’s jeans. I thank him. Beside me, there’s a Proggen who, like me, is overwhelmed. Stunned. Aching. Happy. A mystical experience. Vittorio got dragged into the pit at the end, kudos to him for surviving. We exchange a few words, not enough, unfortunately, the respective return journeys await us. To further explore surely the Voluntary Booty Theory To Push Away. Although the live news, while writing this report, seem interesting. The Brianza outskirts might gift surprises at night. For them. For Converge. It can only close with their words: this is for the heart still beating. Ours beats stronger than ever. Until next time, guys.