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Rating: I want to be like Kerouac and his "On the Road", start writing as if it were a continuous stream, without pre-established schemes. I don't know if I will succeed, besides, although I adore Jack, his writing style doesn't exactly drive me crazy, but never mind, this time it goes like this. Let's start from Friday night, outside of the Echoplex where my Modern Life Is War t-shirt with the gray color has turned into charcoal black and seemed to have come straight out of an Indian monsoon. An annihilating show has just ended featuring in a very personal loudness war the Loma Prieta and the Head Wound City. These latter ones deserve a mention, even if the writing will talk about something entirely different. Head Wound City, we were saying, a band whose live performance is a rarity, but a side project in which I invite you to read the names of the members to understand the schizophrenic scope of their whatever-hardcore where the word noise, noise, noise pops up repeatedly. I was in the first row, as usual, I came out with a ringing in my ears more annoying than any mosquito you might encounter in the plains in August. The fact is that talking a moment with my friend post-concert, I see Val Saucedo, the drummer of Loma, coming out. To my surprise, he stares at me and recognizes me (I refer you to my review on the live with Pianos Become the Teeth, ok), he hugs me, exclaims with a very Californian slang "hey, whassssssup, man?", we talk about new albums and Head Wound City. Then Val notices my shirt and says: "well, tomorrow night are you in the trenches too?". What else to reply if not a "of course, of course". A small introduction that serves to talk to you about a concert I've been waiting for for so, so, many years, since when in high school I picked up "My Love, My Way" and my way of thinking about hardcore changed drastically. Saturday night in Los Angeles, they arrived to celebrate the decade of Witness, the Modern Life Is War, one of those bands you always put in those utterly useless personal rankings among the artists who influenced you, conquered you, they have... insert your token to find the most appropriate word. That's what they are to me, it wasn't a show like many others. It was THE show.
The Roxy Theatre awaits you there, just at the beginning of the endless stretch of Sunset Boulevard. It's not an enormous venue, despite having top-tier fame, it will hold at most five hundred people, to be optimistic, it has a hexagon-shaped stage sharply cut in the middle and a stage height that defining ridiculous is an understatement: it barely reaches the knee of a normal adult person. Boring technical details? I grant you, but useful for the cause. The agitation I personally had in my body Saturday was one of those you can perceive at first glance, not that I did anything to hide it, quite the opposite. I arrive at the Roxy well in advance, just in time to have dinner nearby and be able to queue at the entrance calmly with the inevitable 21+ bracelet. The atmosphere is really that of great occasions, while as I enter among other things I notice sheets stuck everywhere saying "No Stage Diving", well, fix your reminder on this thing there. The electricity that is in the air grows as the clock hands move and it is fed also by the groups that will open the evening. From the Bay Area come the Culture Abuse, who climb on stage hallucinated, in an undefined mix of useful fiction for the performance and high alcohol level. During the short, but intense set, indeed, you can't count the times Bud cans fly to the floor, but this does not lower the stunning impact made of shabby punk rock, with an engaging lo-fi sound and out-of-control rhythms. Beers fall on the drums. David, the singer, falls to the ground, groans, complains, mocks, breaks the microphone stand throwing it in the air and the twenty minutes fly by in a flash. Degrading yes, but in a positive sense. It is exactly at the end of their show that I notice next to me Jeremy Bolm, the singer of Touché Amoré, ready too to let himself go over the course of the evening. If things had gotten "weird" with Culture Abuse, they surely continue to be with the Cult Leader. The group from Utah is nothing else but the legacy of the Gaza and they are the heaviest band of the evening, a mix between sludge, grind, and crust with dark hues that, in terms of attitude, reminded me somewhat of AmenRa. The protagonist of the performance is a possessed Anthony Lucero who after a handful of minutes decides to come down from the stage and sing the entire live among the audience. He moves sinuously, like a poisoned snake, while the Cult Leader with the weight of a boulder that even in Dante's Purgatory raise the level of gain to make it an abrasive skinning.
There's nothing to say, the appetizers of the evening are of the highest quality, but the situation is becoming even more incendiary. Before Modern Life Is War, there's an authentic gem. A band that you never understand if it's active, if it's on a break, in short, in the most classic DIY mood that characterizes the HC scene. Taking the stage are the Dangers, true Californians, since 2004 with fury. No one expected them, I just told you, so when they were announced it was no longer just the decade anniversary of Modern Life Is War, but also the chance to see a band again that makes schizophrenic rhythms and very sharp riffs its trademark. After all, if the live begins with a piece like "We Broke the P.A." what can you expect? The audience wants them, Al Brown knows it. Remember the sign "No Stage Diving"? Big laughs. The crowd starts pushing towards the stage, everyone trying to climb over everyone, people take the opportunity to make the first stage dives and Al, who has a scream as expressive as few others, moves the amplifiers and, hysterically, starts throwing the microphone everywhere. He grabs my t-shirt (and I who had just mended it say goodbye again to my Birds In Row shirt) and incites, incites, incites. For him, it's not just any show, after all, the whole family is on stage tonight. With 8 and 9-year-olds, wife, brother-in-law, and whoever else you can think of. In one of the few breaks, he tells us that it is our job to reassure them as they have never seen their dad like this and could get scared, despite promising to sing them a lullaby once they return home. Roaring laughter and the ordeal resumes. The Dangers on stage are in a warlike state, there's even space for new tracks, Al is a crazy piece, he moves everywhere, launches into crowd surfing, grabs the mic, and jumps to sing in the middle of the pit that has formed in the middle of the Roxy hall. It's all so out of control, so damn bone-breaking. The applause at the end of the performance is thunderous, but now, there, among the audience you can see a certain Jeffrey Eaton going backstage: the big moment has arrived.
Butterflies in the stomach, that's the dominant feeling inside me. I am right under Matt Hoffman when the lights go down. The entrance on stage is one of those humble ones, simple, there's no backdrop, no set design, it's all very raw and old school. Jeffrey takes the microphone in hand and has a message to deliver before starting: "This stage tonight is not mine, it’s yours too, feel free to come up here with me, you are us"; needless to say, the suggestion will be taken literally. I can barely contain myself, I'm already starting to move when Matt and John begin with their guitars hinting at "The Outsider". It’s as if I’m no longer in control of myself when the words fly: "We are Modern Life Is War from Marshalltown, Iowa. Let's go". The end. Goodbye, world. I really can't find the words, I'm not sure I can put into writing everything that was going through my mind when with my poor vocal cords I was screaming every single word, every single lyric of Witness. Because yes, Witness is performed in its entirety, following the painful and emotional journey integrally, leaving out nothing. We move to the desperation of "John & Jimmy" to the intimate and alienating dimension of "Marshalltown", with a surprise "D.E.A.D. Ramones" placed there in the middle, liberating and engaging. My feet are no longer touching the ground, and it's not a metaphor, I'm simply being dragged forward with Eaton mere inches away, with Jeremy Bolm tumbling onto my back, with people who seem to relate so deeply with the reality of anonymous frustration that the Modern Life Is War narrate. The melodies are tearing, they become full of a disillusionment that Jeffrey embodies well. An insecurity that the fragile step of "I'm not ready" brings out, allowing one of the few deep breaths of the concert. It’s incredible to see the calmness of Tyler, John, Chris, and Matt counteract the frenzy of someone who has nothing left to lose and who screams with one of the most defining screams of the new hardcore scene all his will to react. More than once, I see them playing with their eyes closed, especially during the grand finale of "Hair Raising Accounts of Restless Days" that with its 5 minutes harnesses and conveys all the essence of Modern Life Is War. Witness is over, but not the concert.
"First & Ellen" crashes back from "My Love, My Way" and... nothing, it’s my favorite song of theirs, dragged by the crowd, I end up on stage, grab Jeffrey for a second and throw myself down, letting myself fall into the audience. Something that, in hindsight, seems hard to believe I did, yet it was so. Those words, that melodic break, that final escalation, it’s mine.. It’s everything that led me to love Modern Life Is War, I think it’s what pushed me, to remove all possible brakes. Also dug are "Fuck the Sex Pistols" from "Midnight In America" and "Chasing My Tail" from the latest "Fever Hunting". By now, I'm a waterfall of sweat, the bruises on my ankles, elbows, and shoulders are starting to show. A Vans from behind comes to remind me that the front line is always an experience..mystical? The final dive the Modern Life Is War package with "By The Sea": holy shit. I try to navigate through the thousand arms, scream as loud as I can, exhausted, but happy. Jeffrey comes over the audience and extends the mic to us, with the veins in his neck now about to collapse I sputter "I want to live to see a brand new life", last words repeated like a mantra with the closure extended to exhaustion, with rolls and distortions growing increasingly harsher. What follows? It’s a roar from the audience, with smiles and the feeling of having witnessed an intense performance not only musically but also personally.
I wanted to find an impactful conclusion for this report, but I think it’s better to close it as the Modern Life Is War began their show, without pyrotechnic effects. So I just say thanks to them. Thank you.
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