The following was written in situ, during the event or shortly after. In some cases (specifically, parts of the final chapter), there was enough time between the event and my recollection of it that I stray into rambling territory. (My apologies.) All changes are grammatical or completions where I used shorthand. All conversations and observations are made from memory and perception. These are the events of two days in winter, as I lived them.
The sea swells and bashes into barriers, threatening to flood their wards—and in some cases, succeeding. Gale force winds pour into cities. They whip vast waves of rubbish into a frenzy. Rain not so much falls as it is swept into your face. Transportation services are cancelled, and for those who are lucky, only delayed. Newspapers report of the worst weather in three decades.
Well, it’s England, all right. And this will be Intronaut and Scale the Summit’s backdrop.
Right now, my rear end is sore. I’ve been travelling in some form for the past four hours, and will evidently do so for some time more. I’m one of the lucky travellers whose train was merely delayed, you see, and whose hopes of sitting on the bands’ soundcheck may very well have been dashed. (As ever, it is a train that will rob me of the elusive meaningful time with Intronaut.1).
The sky is a deceptive blue, hovering over foreboding clouds on the horizon that seem to angrily stifle meek rays of sunlight. It’s a welcome patch of calm, but we know it won’t last: it’s that foreboding horizon into which we ride.
My arrival in Bristol is met with a warm, mild wind. So much for my terrible forecast. You tend to forget when you’ve been in the north too long that not all of the UK is beset with the constant presence of doom-laden clouds. Outside of London (which always feels cold to me), winter doesn’t set in quite as forcefully.
Fortunately for me (and perhaps only me), after a brief detour down the wrong road, I find that the bands have just arrived, too.
While Intronaut goes down to set up, I have a brief talk with Scale the Summit. There was a big shift in terms of sound between Carving Desert Canyons and their subsequent album, The Collective, something about which I’ve always wondered. Finally I get my answer: it’s because the producer had a more metal background (e.g. Devildriver, Black Dahlia Murder). Well, that explains the more metal sound easily enough. Perhaps I should have considered googling it.
In any case, I’m genuinely excited to see them play.
Strewn across the tiny basement floor is a mass of equipment; toms, cymbals, frames, heavy cases. The band is busy figuring out the logistics of how four people are supposed to fit in the small enclosure of this rectangular space.
I have to comment on this space. When I first entered the room, I thought it was a hallway. It took a moment to realise there was nowhere to go: this was it. The bands are better than this. To my relief, I’m told by Sacha (Dunable)—whom I’m obstructing by using the merch table to write this—that this is the smallest venue they’ll be playing, and that, despite the title above, they won’t actually be doing a soundcheck. Setting everything up and doing a cursory beat on each drum will be it, the minusculity of the stage as unappealing as it is.
Nevertheless, I didn’t really come here to watch a soundcheck, but to soak up the mundane-yet-always-different atmosphere of a touring band.
Following instruments, comes merchandise. Shirts, hoodies, LPs, CDs, posters, and a copious amount of gaffer tape. Oh, and a guitar tablature book, but no tape on that. It’s all set up pristinely, then left there for the horde that will soon gather. The room is abandoned.
I joke that I already know I’m going to be wasting a lot of money tonight. (Scale the Summit guitarist) Chris Letchford quickly interrupts—it’s not a waste, but an investment. I don’t doubt that I’d prefer to advertise bands I like over corporate logos.
Contrary to what Sacha said, some form of soundcheck does take place. The microphone is tested, followed by the heavy thuds of the drums. The bass drum reverberates throughout the room. Brett Walts2, the sound engineer, remarks that the snare sounds like shit, while the toms sound like balls. In between this, he has to ask which gates are on which channel; every new venue brings a new set of acoustics and unfamiliar equipment. Having done this for 13 years, however, Brett’s approach is typically perfectionist. He tells me it’s about “tuning the room,” getting the equipment to sound as close to the album as possible in a different room every night, with instruments that sound different with repeated use and after a day in the cold, along with the spectre of Murphy’s Law. He also identifies tonight’s challenge: with no space between instruments, drum beats are bleeding into the vocalists’ microphones. Eliminating this, he predicts, will likely require a compromise in vocal clarity. Ultimately, Brett’s knowledge of music and descriptions of his process shows the wizardry that goes into executing a live performance.3
The openers arrive and start setting up. Upstairs, the headliners go through various stages of waiting for the show to start. I sit in the corner. There’s not much to say now. After a brief raucous at the hands of the ever-cheerful Dave (Timnick), a calmness settles on the room. Were I more acquainted with it, I might have said this is the sound of professional musicians. As I’m not, I can only presume so. It continues into the opening set, then the following act.
Dave, as implied previously, appears to be the only one revelling in the freedom afforded visiting artists, taking in the complimentary libations and starting the night’s running joke when we hear the band who’ll be performing on the larger stage preparing. The noise is not to my liking, but Dave’s distaste exceeds the borders of hatred of the genre being played. He insists on investigating. When he returns, he describes a band with whom I’m not familiar—nor particularly care to discover—comprising two people, one a drummer-slash-singer and the other manning a “brown keyboard”. (That may sound like Dresden Dolls in this description, only.) The drummer, to Dave’s anger and dismay, insists that the sound of the bass drum be fixed, for it is too loud and “violent”. That violence is a foundational part of the sound crafted by metal practitioners, as Dave points out, suggests clearly enough why no one’s interest here will extend beyond mere curiosity. But this incident, not to mention their music, is enough to serve as the focus of future mockeries.
Halfway through the night, I make a meagre sandwich from the assortment of food put out for the band (and, unintentionally, one fortunate guest) and start talking to Joe (Lester) about his bass guitar. From 1999 to 2013, Joe had used a Pedulla, before switching to a Zon that was custom-made for him. He is happy with it, both because he can finally use the pickups supplied by EMG without having to disfigure his Pedulla, and feels it produces a more satisfying low end. In the end, it seems to be a win-win for both Joe and Zon, whose stable of talented endorsees continues to grow along with the inherent goodwill towards the tiny Buffalonian company.
Eventually, the conversation peters down as the final band in which I have no interest (to be frank) breakdowns toward the end of its set. I wish good luck to those who haven’t yet headed down, and try to remember the way to the basement with the original path now blocked to prevent attendees from heading into the bands’ rooms.
The new route is frustratingly inefficient. After meandering down stairs, you’re forced to exit the building and re-enter farther down its side, and then meander down a further set of stairs; a bouncer controls entry at both doors, one keeping fans out of the now artist-only entrance, and the other supposedly checking tickets. I say “supposedly” because none checks mine, the only indication that they care being my verbal altercation with the disinterested bouncer controlling the artist entrance when I mistakenly show him my ticket and he concludes that, as someone with the temerity to pay for this concert, I must not be authorized to use this entrance. Thankfully, my tenacity trumps his evident fatigue, but successfully negotiating my way back in doesn’t leave me with anything more than consciousness of my own idiocy. Had I not been too proud to allow the perception that I was attending for free, I would not have felt the compulsion to show my ticket to someone who didn’t request it and who, furthermore, found himself embroiled in a needless argument with Your Right Honourable Nincompoop. When I next see him, I apologise for the fuss I caused, he explains why he started it—and further why he’s obliged to stop ne’erdowells without a pass—it’s all cordially sorted, but only cordially. At some point, I’m supposed to grow out of this inability to handle mundane human interaction. I’m also supposed to stop derailing narratives with my obsessions over irrelevant encounters with incidental characters. Today is not that day.
A mass of sweaty teens hang around the basement’s entrance. Donning overly-thin T-shirts, they cool off away from the heated, humid stage, and from the overwhelming lack of adults in the crowd, I’m only guessing that they must be here either for the previous bands, which were themselves composed of teenagers (or close to it), or Scale the Summit, with whose fanbase I’m unfamiliar. Failing these two possibilities, this will be the first time I’ve seen an Intronaut show devoid of an audience that traditionally comprises an overabundance of facial hair.
After positioning myself in front of the stage, I notice the audience steadily go through an age transfusion. (Turns out my first hypothesis was correct.) As the members of Scale the Summit start to trickle in with their instruments, boys are replaced by men… and the occasional woman. Drummer Pat Skeffington hits every drum with a monotone rhythm; the monitor beside me blows a gust of air with every beat, most forcefully when he reaches the bass drum. Everything goes smoothly enough until Mark Michell, the bassist, reports that he can’t get any sound out of his bass, and Brett has to push through the waiting horde to investigate. Is it a cable or amp issue? All we can do is wait.
Eventually, the problem is identified and fixed, and the band is allowed to briefly finish setting up. And after a curt introduction, the show begins.
To an audience chomping for more, the sliding, deep grooves of “The Literal Black Cloud” draw the evening to a close, the end severely punctuated by Danny (Walker)’s final, resonating hit of the ride. Intronaut opt against an encore, leaving everyone’s—mine included—desire to see more to go unsatiated5. As always, the severing of instrument and listener has left me physically and emotionally drained, and all I can do is take the remaining silence, or what would pass for it, to compose a torrent of thoughts, all of which comprise a variation of elation over what I’d just witnessed and slow cascade of depression that it has to be over so soon. Were I in a slightly difference place and time, I would most assuredly be stretching myself yet thinner to do this tomorrow all over again.
Coming out of my daze reveals the band members to be dismantling and unplugging their instruments, in between the odd chat with a fan. Touring brings with it a long series of structural creation and destruction; frames being painstakingly built to preference and near-perfection (unless perfection is, indeed, achieved), only to have their bolts loosened and shapes disintegrated hours later, just to restart the process all over again the next day. Sweaty, tired hands remove the cymbals and drums, coil metre upon metre of cable. Thus begins the second half of mundanity that one can only hope has just been justified in a minuscule timeframe measured in minutes.
As fans disappear, the vacated space is replaced by large, empty cases, waiting to engorge the mass of carbon and wire. Standing idly to observe, guilt over this idleness creeps in and I attempt to engage in some conversation with Sacha, asking him about his pedals. He mentions that he doesn’t use a distortion pedal, using instead the amp to produce distortion. I’ve always wondered about how Intronaut produces its distinct sludgy sound, and remark that he (or someone else) ought to list his gear on Wikipedia, so enquiring minds may be so informed instead of having to google in futile.6
Wound cables and then guitars find their way into the cases. Pat carefully lays each cymbal between fine cloth manufactured to protect them into a bag manufactured to house them. A conversation about influences erupts when Dave starts the task of putting away his own equipment, a constant figure amongst a motley of bands and musicians being Jimi Hendrix. For all the diverse influences within Intronaut, at least that is consistent, although I’m left to reflect on an exchange that takes up more of my mind than Jimi. Dave seemingly sarcastically mentions Bon Jovi, and I, in my infinite perceptiveness, make a firm declaration that, a) one can make an argument that early-Bon Jovi is listenable, and b) I am not one of those to make that argument. (Emphasis on Bon Jovi does not make my kind of music, and if you like their music, we may disagree about a few things.) Dave then turns it around and reveals that he genuinely likes Bon Jovi, abandoning me on the shores of foolishness. I lick my wounds while the conversation continues around me, before slinking to the merch table to bother Pat.
Throughout the entire day, Pat has been beset with muted coughs and a slight glaze in his eyes. He has a cold7, and I respect that he doesn’t let it get in the way of a sterling performance and the badgering that follows. He is the only member of Scale the Summit to not originate from Texas, having moved to Houston from California to work with the band. Internally, I reflect that this gives me a good opportunity to ask whether the cultural and political shift was difficult for him, if there was any, as well as what motivated him to make such a significant move. Externally, I ask what it’s like to live in Texas. I get the obvious response, “It’s great.”
To my credit, I resist the urge to comment that I feel bad that Gary Kubiak’s time in Houston won’t end well, along with the urge to display my shameful level of inane and oft-cynical knowledge about whatever his chosen habitat, the present one being Texas.
I make my first pair of “investments” of the night: Scale the Summit’s latest album, The Migration, and a black T-shirt on which a sienna recreation of the aforementioned album’s cover has been printed, the latter of which for some reason required an unfair amount of needless deliberation. Although I saw the cover before, I comment now that I like how reminiscent of it is of a progressive rock LP from the 1970s, and that, indeed, it’s on the LP version of the album that the art seems to shine. We agree that CDs will never be able to match the aesthetic quality of LPs, and how the latter’s recent revival is a boon for music—even if neither of us are particular aficionados. (I personally own only two LPs; one belonging to Iggy Pop and the other, Van Halen.) The loss of music’s allure intensifies with every technological advance, particularly in the digital age. Those of us with a deep connection with music all recall our great discoveries, and how we, singularly, traversed burgeoning aural frontiers. These may have been popular explorations, but each discovery was ours alone, done so meticulously through careful examinations of artwork, lyrics, rhythm, beat, cadence, length, and production decisions. Some would even attempt to get a glimpse of the industry’s inner machinery by observing their acknowledgements.
Certainly, I’d be lying if I said that nostalgia did not exist today, but I can’t help but feel that when you look at something like an LP, you still get a sense of it, but increasingly less so with CDs and FLAC. This topic comes up in a less meaningful way when I talk to Chris about his use of Fractal as opposed to traditional pedals. I am in love with what Fractal Audio is doing and am envious that I don’t own something like the Axe-Fx II, but with the idea of aesthetics on my mind, I ask him whether he feels the “old-school badassness” (forgive me, I couldn’t think of apt words on the spot) is missed in abandoning the mass of beaten-up pedals—specifically, the aesthetics of the travelling musician. Under the impression that I disapprove of his use of Fractal, he shoots back that now he doesn’t have to travel with a large collection of pedals but a single one, saving both space and peace of mind. Lost in my previous nostalgia was the consideration of efficiency. I don’t carry all my CDs (and pair of vinyls) around with me; I carry all my music around with me on a hard drive, with an extraordinary freedom to listen to music wherever and whenever I please. Is losing that worth a beautiful cover? Is losing the old ideas of what music is supposed to be worth the convenience?
Next investments: two Intronaut shirts. The first is a brilliant and clearly popular rendition of a black metal-listening dolphin smoking a bong. It dons corpsepaint and a Gorgoroth T-shirt. The second is what looks like a colourful, abstract lion. It’s actually made up of different shapes, one of which is that of the familiar Intronaut motif (as further evidenced by the central figure of the previous purchase), a dolphin. As pretty as the lion may be, it’s obvious that the Gorgoroth dolphin might be Intronaut’s best design—and it was designed by a roommate, go figure.
Both in the basement and artists’ quarters, antsy figures urge those inside to get going; only brief conversations are borne out: I talk with Danny about the size of the stage, and then Sacha about maudlin of the Well. Danny tells me that “Any Port”, a song that ends with a prolonged instrumental section led by the dual rhythmic beats of Danny and Dave, had to be scrapped tonight because there was not enough space to accommodate Dave’s set of toms. Sacha, by way of either fatigue or disinterest, appears to lack my own enthusiasm for maudlin, although he mentions having seen them live before they disbanded, to my certain envy.
Antsy figures. I begin to pack up to placate them.
Baeta J. 2011. When plans go awry: Intronaut live, two. https://joaquimbaeta.com/literature/when-plans-go-awry-intronaut-live-two.html.
The result of my second time seeing the band, titled “When Plans Go Awry: Intronaut Live, Two,” failed in 290 words to aptly capture the night’s events. Rather than allow you to bother reading that terrible, terrible, blog post, I present a recap: the latest train home was scheduled to leave at (roughly) 23:00; because of unforeseen problems, the bands were forced to move across the venue at the last minute, delaying the show for over an hour; as a result, Intronaut started so late that we only made it halfway through their set before we had to catch a taxi to the train station; arriving mere minutes before the train was scheduled to arrive, we found that it was delayed and then, upon its arrival, cancelled; thus, we were left without completing Intronaut’s set, and without the train for which we had abandoned them; eventually, we hatched a plan with a group of other passengers to share a taxi to our respective cities; as the taxi pulled out of the station’s parking lot, a fellow passenger looked at me through the window with a bitter, defeated expression—we had not involved him in our plan, nor noticed him, nor cared; he was left behind. The punchline of this joke of an evening: Danny broke a cymbal that day and kept it as a gift for us, only to find after the show that we had already left.
My introduction to Brett is when I wrote the two sentences that follow. Hesitating with their accuracy, I ask him to verify them. To his dismay, not only is what I wrote inaccurate, but evidently makes him look inept. Since that’s the opposite of my intention, I ask him to elucidate. This is where our conversation starts.
A minor introduction that takes place during our conversation is to a reviewer from Punk Prospect, whom I meet on and off again throughout the night. As an ancillary character, he goes without mention except for here. Contrasting my own knowledge (or pseudo-knowledge) about music, he was exceedingly knowledgeable about the state and politics of music venues, about which he discussed with Brett. Apparently, subsidies play an important role in European venues’ efficacy, and their present lack in the UK has proven to be a hindrance. Later, we discuss the show and then—crucially—a certain dolphin (see “Investments”).
I intentionally left out comments on both bands’ performances because I wanted to avoid making this a review. Previous “reviews” are evident enough of my lack of objectivity when it comes to certain live performances, so I want to firmly detach this from the perception constraints of a review. Compare:
Baeta J. 2011. Unforgettable: Intronaut Live, One. https://joaquimbaeta.com/literature/unforgettable-intronaut-live-one.html
Baeta J. 2011. Embarrassment Never Felt so Good: Cynic Live, One. https://joaquimbaeta.com/literature/embarrassment-never-felt-so-good-cynic-live-one.html
“Chill October” by John Everett Millais, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:John_Everett_Millais_-_Chill_October.JPG, public domain.
“Blow Blow Thou Winter Wind” by John Everett Millais, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:John_Everett_Millais_-_Blow_Blow_Thou_Winter_Wind_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg, public domain.
