Skip to main contentAt the ripe age of 31, I'm old enough to have a working knowledge of the '90s "Loudness War" and its effect on modern pop music. I remember where I was when news of Kurt Cobain's death broke (at a Taco Bell adjacent to a Coconut's Music, fittingly). I also remember what a revelation it was when Nirvana got huge for streamlining the use of quiet-loud dynamics to make the loud parts sound louder and the quiet parts sound like menacing preambles to venomous screeds that only land if they're turned up to 11. I braved Death Grips' sold-out show at the Roseland Theater on Sunday without ear plugs, hoping that somewhere beneath their shroud of mystery and all their chaotic digital clipping would be a minor revelation as to what it is that makes them feel so vital and beloved by critics, but left with an unshakable feeling that there's nothing profound to be discovered under their menacing, aggravated roar.
Aside from the false starts, breakups and other sordid web-fueled controversy, itâs easy to understand the fascination that led to the show selling out in advance: Considering rap musicâs dominance of pop airwaves for the past 15 years, Death Gripsâ murky, bass-heavy dystopian hip-hop is a wholly modern analog to the the macho alt-rock of bygone eras. On the Sacramento groupâs five-ish records, the incendiary outbursts of Stefan âMC Rideâ Burnett paired with the relentless, Animal-style drumming of Hellaâs Zach Hill create a darkly trippy Molotov cocktail that teeters between addled tension and unbridled rage before exploding in your face abruptly.
One would think live renditions of tracks like "Get Got" or "Hustle Bones"— standouts from beloved 2012 release The Money Store—would be a wet dream for the assembly of 20-year-old kids reared on 'mersh rap who just want to punch shit between vape-pen hits. In that regard, the trio (rounded out by a what looked like an androgynous German tourist turning knobs and piloting a MacBook) brought the pain. But their seamless medley of three-minute cuts of both old and new bangers never let up, and this raises the question that keeps making me feel like a geezer: If you're always operating at full speed and maximum volume, what even constitutes as loud? Where's the payoff? That moment when the proverbial fuzz pedal kicks on and the crowd earns the right to behave like deranged wolverines?
Metalheads and meatheads and spindly fuccbois with bad script tattoos attended in equal measure, and it was clear by the time "Hustle Bones" hit that the unsubtle din of throbbing sub-bass and grating, tuneless samples drowning out Hill's frenetic drumming at every turn was getting everyone all tuckered out. The only moment that felt like a reprieve of sorts was the intro to "This Is Violence Now (Don't Get Me Wrong)," an odd little nugget of future funk that sounds a lot like a collaboration between Diplo and Tim & Eric. And then it was back to the meat grinder with a suite of tracks from latest album The Powers That B and a bookend that included "The Fever (Aye Aye)", "Guillotine" and "I Want It I Need It (Death Heated)." Though the latter had brief glimpses of rock band compatibility a la Ill Communication-era Beastie Boys, the song's blown-out sonic sludge treatment left me wondering whether it was the Roseland's overworked soundboard or the Grips' personal preference for the show's actual live elements (drums and vocals) to be drowned out by a sea of digitized filth.
Once they got over the elation of Death Grips actually showing up, the mob's collective movement throughout the 20-plus song affair was mostly short, violent freak-outs and enraged shout-alongs, followed by exhausted wobbling and utter confusion. This is all part of the plan, of course: When the wave of hype surrounding one of underground music's boldest and most undefinable new groups appears to be cresting, options include either rising to the occasion and becoming as profound and important as your fans require you to be, or aggressively throwing shade their way to skirt the responsibility of living up to expectations. For several brief moments it felt like the former, but the endless ringing in my tired, old ear feels more like a harsh product of the latter.
WWeek 2015