Boris + Arabrot
The music itself was full of stark, thunderous menace, counterpointed with moments of surprising delicacy. On occasion I was gobsmacked by the band’s symphonic ambitions; at other times I felt I was listening to little more than a cacophonous row.
It seems very odd to be venturing out a couple of days after the election to go and see Boris. Loud, contradictory and notoriously difficult to pin down, this Japanese experimental heavy rock band throw up rather too many uncomfortable parallels for the events of Thursday to be entirely absent from my thinking, as I tentatively dip my toe into the waters of a trio that have been ploughing their own distinctive furrow since the early nineties. Playing to an unusually youthful crowd for the Norwich Arts Centre, theirs is an uncompromising offering that takes no prisoners. Ear plugs at the ready – off we go.
You can tell a lot from how a support band carries itself. Some shuffle apologetically on stage, some doff their virtual hats in gratitude at being there, while others can’t wait for it to be over. Once in a while, you’ll fall across a band like Arabrot, who appear to be unaware that they are the support band, such is the power and presence of their performance. They describe themselves as a noise- orientated post-punk band from Haugesund in Norway (not, I imagine, a crowded field) but given the depth and texture of their set, it is a description that surely does them a disservice.
The band is fronted by the charismatic (and improbably tall) Kjetil Nernes. Kitted out all in white (except for his nutty hat) he cuts quite a dash as he powers through one song after another, sounding like the bastard child of Jaz Coleman and Nick Cave, while looking uncannily like Jello Biafra at his twitchiest. The band appears to be very much his project, with the rest of the line-up fluid. Identification is certainly illusive, but special mention is warranted for the human Theremin on keyboards and the fellow beating the shit out the drums throughout.
The music itself was full of stark, thunderous menace, counterpointed with moments of surprising delicacy. That drumming is central to the ominous tone, allowing Kjetil Nernes’s messianic presence to preach at a congregation that was increasingly converted as their set went on. I’ve little idea what Nernes was rattling on about (it was a pity we didn’t get clearer sound) but he did so with such energy and commitment that I’m convinced he had something of substance to say. So convinced, that I was minded to nip out in the break to buy a CD, just to find out.
After the break, came Boris, and what an extraordinary impact they made on stage. Atsuo Mizuno, with a face painted up like Kabuki mask, stood eerily front and centre, surveying an eager crowd before settling down behind his drum kit, a shimmering gong acting as his halo. He was swiftly joined by Takeshi Ohtani with his improbably double necked bass/guitar and Wata on guitar, keyboard and wibbly wobbly noises. Together they launched into a fairly unremitting onslaught of noise. Peering through impenetrable smoke, the band were barely visible for much of the evening, as they noodled and extemporised through this new material, giving only brief nods to some of their more established numbers.
Surprisingly, they chose the untypically lyrical Away From You to start things off, happy to take an age before reaching a crescendo of sound. When that crescendo came, it was in the shape of To the Beach, before returning to the new album Love and Evol, for Coma. We were treated to a healthy chunk of this album, described as “dynamic, droney, stoney, dreamy and beautiful” in the blurb, but live it morphed into something extraordinary.
It’s tempting to make comparisons with Acid Mother Temple, and not just because both bands are Japanese, but notwithstanding a similarly free flowing musical journey, Boris is an altogether darker affair. There were moments of cathedral like splendour that brought to mind Mogwai or Explosions In The Sky, but also moments of indulgence that had me wondering how much more I could take. Hats off to them for keeping to the manifesto, but occasionally they went so far off into space it was a challenge to fully engage. On occasion I was gobsmacked by the band’s symphonic ambitions; at other times I felt I was listening to little more than a cacophonous row. I was reminded, of all things, of a Philip Glass concert I attended some years ago – go with me on this – at the Barbican. Music in Twelve Parts in an exercise in repetition, and takes six hours to be played in full. I knew it was good – brilliant even – but I think I went a bit mad listening to it. Boris demonstrated you don’t need nearly as long to create the same, maddeningly contradictory, effect.
The music itself was full of stark, thunderous menace, counterpointed with moments of surprising delicacy. On occasion I was gobsmacked by the band’s symphonic ambitions; at other times I felt I was listening to little more than a cacophonous row.
