Add-X,
Babyland, 400 Blows, Midnight Laserbeam
Satyricon,
125 NW 6th Ave., 243-2380
10 pm Wednesday, May 5
$5
Scan any roadside and you'll see the detritus of post-industrial
consumer culture: dead digital watches, discarded fast-food
wrappers, abandoned shopping carts--items collected one moment
and tossed the next without a second thought. What possible
response is there to such meaningless waste and the society
that breeds it?
That's what Babyland wants to know. That's why Babyland
fights to be heard amid the white noise of disposable commercial
music. That's why Babyland refuses to sculpt its "electronic
junk-punk disco noise disruption" according to the commodity-based
rules of popularity.
"We don't see ourselves as being a part of any specific
genre or style of music except in the most broad terms of
'independent,'" says percussionist Smith (who goes by his
last name only). "While there are some things you have to
stand firm on, such as your own integrity and ethics, I
don't see any productive reason to fight the rear-guard
action for some clique or style that only exists in people's
minds. It's much more fun to accept the fluidity of the
process, know for a fact that you're not going to 'fit in,'
and focus your efforts on doing your own thing."
That thing they do is fuse manifold elements of late 20th-century
music, including the desperate outcry of punk, the visceral,
mechanical grind of early industrial, and the shiny heartbeat
of electronica. Linking primitive digital equipment--a dated
'80s Mac running old sequencing software--with junkyard
drums made of scavenged oil barrels and heating coils, the
band bolts together metallic, minimalist techno that alternately
sounds like an ATM having an aneurysm, a concrete mixer
tumbling broken Moog synths, and a modem being fired in
a kiln.
On top of this clattering splatter of sound, singer Dan
Gatto scrapes out a lyrical presence with hoarse vocals
that stand apart from the cloned, robotic drones of most
industrial frontmen. Oscillating between fierce determination
and fiery doubt--about himself, the dryness of daily existence,
the shallowness of mass culture--his songs can either be
a question or a shout, an impassioned plea for clear communication
("Will you talk to me?") or a demand to build something
real in this era of chain stores, talk shows and Net friends.
("If nothing can be permanent, let's tear the shit down.")
The duo's mission--to dissect the myths of modern society
and find the core truths--began in 1989, when Gatto and
Smith formed Babyland as part of typical school assignment:
Interpret a poem. Though the two men were originally attracted
to electronic music via ethereal, intellectual bands like
the Cocteau Twins and late-'80s Swans, Smith explains that
Babyland's early performances quickly showed a different
side to the band's personality. "When we started performing
live, a whole new angle came out that we hadn't expected,
this really aggressive, high-energy aspect that was very
direct, very blood-and-sweat and vivid," he says. "We found
ourselves feeling like we felt when we listened to punk
rock."
Los Angeles punk label Flipside took notice and offered
to put out the band's records. This led to the release of
three full albums--You Suck Crap, A Total Let-Down
and Who's Sorry Now?--plus a smattering of singles.
But Flipside went under in '96, and Babyland found itself
in limbo.
"We were faced with a pretty challenging set of problems,"
Smith says. A few other small labels were interested, and
the band tested these waters but ultimately decided to self-release.
"Basically, we couldn't justify the amount of time you need
to spend yackin' on the phone with blowhards who don't really
care," he says, "so we kind of withdrew from the whole scene
and focused on finishing some good songs."
The result was last year's Outlive Your Enemies,
a 15-song CD released on the duo's own Mattress label. Becoming
100 percent independent isn't the only change for Babyland;
Outlive Your Enemies also shows a few new musical
tricks--like a fistful of songs with clear pop structures
and actual singing from perennial shouter Gatto. In Gatto
and Smith's 10-year quest to find themselves amid the overwhelming
jumble of information and inane products, this album represents
the closest they've come to discovering the soul hidden
in the machine.
"We try to have a human connection," says Smith. "The technology,
the noise, the machines only matter in that we're breaking
them, we're abusing them. We're taking sensual, emotional
experience and channeling it through that process. To hold
that kernel of feeling so that maybe someone can share it--that's
the whole point."
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Willamette Week | originally
published May 5, 1999
|
