Goldie
Ohm
Wednesday, April 12
Systemwide
Ohm
Saturday, April 15
www.goldie.co.uk
is pretty badass if you've got Flash.
Systemwide will
have a new record on racks soon, released on BSI Records,
the label run by Ereckson and Lohr
The gentleman with the microphone keeps shouting the words
"Portland massive!" He pumps his hand in the air when he
says it, mirroring his voice's attempt to pierce the steel-wool-strong
blanket of noise pouring from beneath the hands of the other
gentleman on stage. The gentleman with half of Fort Knox
embedded in his Luciferian grin, that is.
The smile gives him away. The gold-toothed Goldie,
Brit drum 'n' bass demigod, is absolutely unmistakable on
film, still or moving. In person, though, techno's "first
superstar" could easily drift into any pack. This night
at hard-sweating Ohm, a khaki baseball cap pulled low over
his forehead obscures his pitbull mug and unique
bridgework. Hunched over his turntables or nonchalantly
rummaging through his vinyl, he could be a classic Portland
Everydude, except he lacks a two-sizes-too-large microbrew
T-shirt.
The storm of tightly packed beats and meandering whips
of electric noise provides the only clue to who exactly
is the star here. To look at the two guys on the Ohm's cozy
stage, you'd think the mic controller ruled the show. And
in any other musical era but this, you'd have been right.
Tonight, though, the dense hammer of the beats outshines
the MC's frenetic Jamaican-style toasting. The man on the
decks is in charge.
The crowd pays its allegiance. The Ohm's red-brick confines
are busy with frantic shoulder-shrugging and stutter-stepping,
the dance people do when techno out-speeds their own personal
rhythm. The amplified shouts of "Portland Massive" elicit
whoops of confused glee; for all I can tell, most members
of the crowd think this all-purpose piece of Anglo club
slang refers to a new indoor football team.
There's nothing vague about Goldie's control over the crowd,
though. His darkly dramatic mixes move under the power of
their own nightmare logic. One beat washes seamlessly into
another under the expert direction of the former Clifford
Price, creating a single melodramatic swirl. The microphone
shouts, the stark and lonely human cry in a sprawling electroscape,
the sound half-terrified, half-terrifying.
It's hard to say if the crowd catches the flourishes and
details this composite composer throws in--hard to pay attention
to subtlety what with all the shrugging, eh? The propulsive
power is clearly not lost in the transatlantic translation,
however. He's not much to watch, but Goldie clearly owns
the place, embodying the new balance of power in the DJ
Epoch. Since he helped gouge out the foundations for this
bold new musical edifice with his own two hands, he can
maybe be forgiven for simply hanging back and enjoying the
scene.
A few nights later, Systemwide puts on a show that,
visually, is the polar opposite of Goldie's. Lead singer
Ezra Ereckson keeps up a blur of perpetual motion,
as electronic drums, spectral keys and the crackling of
the band's DJ ghost across a chasm of bass.
The black hole of sound centers on Jason Lohr's
five-string, from which he coaxes lines of infinite density
and gravity. Ereckson's vocals alternate between sharp sci-fi
barks through a megaphone and high-pitched calls to prayer.
Lohr bounces like a boxer in training, sweating into his
sport jacket.
While the Goldie folk adorned themselves in standard clubber
gear, tennis shoes at the ready, the Saturday night gang
at Ohm march to battle uniformed for high living. Girls
shimmer, fellas slide. They're looking a little swank, in
fact, for the rugged spelunking of Systemwide.
They're feeling it, though. Systemwide brews a heady witch's
concoction with flavors from Jamaica, the UK and the year
2079, in about equal measure. Heads like it, dreads like
it. While they're built for post-rock reality, though, they
insist on rocking whatever house they play down to rubble.
And even though His Goldness put on a fine show in his own
controlled way, it's still nice to see musicians rattle
their bones.
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Willamette Week | originally
published April 19,
2000
|
