The Melvins: Still Ferocious, Still Innovative, Still Classic
When one is faced with the prospect of seeing a band that has been going strong for more than three decades, there are plenty of questions to be asked. First out of the gate in any fan’s mind is: are they as good as they used to be? Next, perhaps, slurs the cynical subconscious: have they sold out? And thirdly: should they be doing this? I can answer none of these questions with any authority, being born twelve years after King Buzzo and co. damaged their first eardrums, but I have a platform and will wildly gesticulate from it until someone boots me off.
Before I get around to expressing my unwarranted opinion, I must pay dues to the wall-shaking Big Business, who opened the night in worthy riffage. Seeing a single bassist and drummer take the stage, what I like to call my ‘Drenge-sense’ kicked in and I feared a set of dull blues rock; Big Biz immediately bashed my preconception’s mouth in with a sludgy hammer, captivating me instantly in a shower of teeth. I later discovered that their bassist is also the Melvins’ bassist, which makes a whole lot of sense.
When the time came for the Melvins, there was a palpable tension in the air. As the opening droning began to rattle, the band took the stage – but the tension in the crowd was not released until Buzz “King Buzzo” Osbourne strode on in a third-eye-daubed turtleneck jacket, trademark hair at its wildest. Comfortable in his position as minor god to this room of yelling fans, yet not showing an ounce of arrogance, he and the band launched into the set without a word; this was the last glimpse we got of any concept of frontmanship. I mean that as nothing but a compliment: the only other band I have seen where every member is truly equal, yet unique, is Godspeed You! Black Emperor, and the Melvins more than deserve a position next to that almost mythic band in the highest echelon of live performers.
Not once did their noise stop until the gig was up: they didn’t take a single whole-band break throughout the set, in which they spliced different songs together, experimented wildly, and executed every part with awesome skill. Buzzo’s guitar work gave every ounce of its classic eccentricity and swampy tone, and Jared Warren delivered more of the face-shattering bass from earlier, but it was drummers Dale Crover and Coady Willis who came closest to taking centre stage. Endlessly weaving in and out of each other’s impeccable rhythms, they were a sight and sound to behold: a ferocious flurry of brilliance that refused to relent. Without a word, the band left the stage, having done what they came to do and what they have always done.
So back to those questions I am not qualified to answer: I believe that what I witnessed on Saturday night was one of the most honest expressions of music I have ever witnessed. Everything about the Melvins is done for the love of sound, for the thrill of experiment, and for the slack-jawed people like me who resonate with it. “The Melvins!” My friend Igor later exclaimed on the bus. “We just saw the Melvins! That’s a name, you know: like Elvis Presley. The Melvins!” He went on repeating that name, each time with a slightly different emphasis: shyly, zealously, disgustedly. Each iteration fit perfectly. Igor is right: the Melvins are a household name (albeit in households generally avoided by the majority of the Elvis Presley camp) and seeing them tear up a large Camden basement with the ease of four piledrivers felt like watching Old Faithful spout its umpteenth vitriol into the sky. They are everything a veteran act should be: still ferocious, still innovative, and still classic.
