Earthless
Live at Roadburn

The premise seems like the plot of a teen comedy from across the pond: a bizarre mash-up between "Grease II" and that Simpsons episode where Homer gets shot in the stomach with cannonballs.

Imagine the protagonist as a somewhat scruffy guy: not exactly a nerd... just not quite a "rock star." One of those guys, you know, whom classmates only remember by surname and where he sits in the classroom.

Then, suddenly, a stroke of luck. An unexpected break.
The lighting guy trips and shines the spotlight on someone who had, until then, been in the shadows.
The football team captain slips and breaks a leg.
The cool kid of the group gets diarrhea.

...and the protagonist finds himself with the panties of the head Cheerleader between his teeth.

Literally speaking, things went more or less like this.
Every year, in spring, in the town of Tilburg, the Netherlands, at a venue called "013," the Roadburn takes place: more than just a simple festival, a true melting pot of bands where nonsense like genres, labels, and musical prejudices almost always come to a bad end. Just think, the 2009 edition will feature, among others, the Russ Meyer-esque Motorpsycho, the krauter-ready Amon Dull II, the revived Saint Vitus, our very own Ufomammut, and the bluesy Radio Moscow. Suffice it to say, finding a common thread might be a sweaty endeavor.

During the 2008 edition, the Isis, the main attraction on Friday night, finish playing quite early. To replace them, three jailbirds are called in, who, theoretically, were supposed to perform in the smallest room of "013," the "Bat Cave" (estimated capacity: 200 people). Undaunted by the crowd in the room (rumored to be two thousand Christians stiff from THC), the group climbs onto the main stage of the venue. The one with the guitar approaches the microphone and, with a slurred speech and bad breath, mumbles something like:

"Thanks everyone...
we are Earthless...
we are so happy to be here...it's really great to be here...
thanks, thank you all so much...
all the bands today have been incredible... thanks again for everything...

...Gino, play the music..."

From there onwards, it will be NINETY minutes NINETY of "cosmic hard rock instrumental" jams and psychedelic lights flashing in the dark like B-beams near the Tannhauser gate: a long, seemingly endless guitar-driven ride backed by bass and drums, bouncing between hard blues, stoner, and space rock, almost evoking eternal live improvisations of seventies’ memory.

It's as if Tony Hill, Bonzo Bonham, and Geezer Butler found themselves playing at Dave Brock's wedding of Hawkwind after having locked Dik Mik in the bathroom: an endless series of blows below Orion's belt, a veritable torrent of notes that only asks the listener not to resist and just get carried away by the current.

And if in studio productions it’s Isaiah Mitchell's guitar acrobatics that excite, here it's mostly drummer Mario Rubalcaba who drops his pants and shows the world that if he struggles to cross his legs, it's because he's got balls that big underneath.

The result, inevitably, is one that stuns and fascinates, attracts and disorients at the same time. Because, let's be clear, while the live dimension is what best brings out the trippy approach of the San Diego trio, it’s also true that an hour and a half of psycho-instrumental drift risks sticking to your cerebral cortex worse than moss.

You know the ending now.
Free popcorn for those who stay until the end credits.