THE BLACK ANGELS ARE COMING TO THE FOX THEATRE ON OCT. 22.

Never have I published a substantial article on a band (*
http://www.boulderweekly.com/20080612/overtones.html*) and then felt
compelled to write about them again after seeing the show in question. But
someone needed to rise above the neo-jamband, hippie-clamor and show the
world that "psychedelia" does not just mean shallow bliss, and the Black
Angels are inspiring many music lovers around this country by doing just
that. Their music has been a healthy shock to my system lately, and in
concert it was transcendent. I talked so much in Boulder Weekly about the
Velvet Underground and Syd Barrett and proving that some of the best, most
enduring music of the 1960's – the music that so deeply influences the Black
Angels – was not flower-powered at all, but in fact deep and dark. And the
real point is what's happening at this moment: a young band that just put
out their second album is improving beyond belief and becoming one of the
most honest and important American groups to come around in a long time.

To be sure, last night I felt like my heart was on fire, standing a few feet
from the band in the midst of one of those rare sustained series of
unforgettable moments where you feel like an artist is singing to you, even
through you, staring into your vulnerable soul with music and lyrics that
very hauntingly, very realistically say, by chance, "this is exactly what
you've been feeling lately; this is what you're feeling right now; and this
is what we have to tell you about it." Maybe I felt like singer Alex Maas
was taking the part of Indiana Jones at the end of *Temple of Doom*,
exclaiming "you betray Shiva!" and pulling my heart out with his bare hands.
I'm not sure, but the music was great.

It was one of those precious, unpredictable experiences where you lose and
find yourself many times in a span of an hour or so, with ears bleeding and
soul humming, body bouncing to what was once called rock n' roll: a
treacherous din infatuating all within ear's range and mesmerizing, slaying,
even metamorphosizing those close enough to be sprayed with the singer's
sweat as he prowls about the stage slamming a tambourine off either wrist in
his moments of genuine ecstasy. No other concert I've seen – and I've been
to maybe a thousand and performed hundreds more – has ever captured a
feeling, a series of current, personal events, an explosion of the honesty
within me, taken hold of it and taken an electric *shock* to it, like the
Black Angels did in Denver last night. It was like all the music and all the
emotion I know and love, and continue to identify with for better or worse
as I age, was wrapped up in a ball of sound and thrown back at me in one
dark star-burst of an hour-and-a-half set of rock music.

If *Time Out of Mind* had not been released in 1997 but instead in 2001,
when I was heartbroken with open wounds and surrounded by negativity, and
I'd somehow seen Dylan perform those songs at a small club in Pittsburgh
like Metropol, it may have matched the relevance of last night. But then
again, the execution, intensity and aggressive release of such a young,
vital band as the Black Angels would not have been there for Dylan in his
old age. And the Black Angels' music is not sad; it's a barrage of brutal
truth. Last night vaguely reminded me of seeing Arcade Fire at Shoreline
Amphitheatre on their second tour after Neon Bible came out – those songs
had become much stronger in concert and had begun to come alive and not pale
in comparison to songs from Funeral but instead compliment them. But Arcade
Fire's songs are eventually about hope, whereas the Black Angels' message is
something akin to a Bill Hicks routine: "we are all one/nothing exists
except this moment/and there is no such thing as death." I'm especially
reminded of those philosophies during "Sniper At the Gates of Heaven," when
Maas sings "what do you do when Hell surrounds you?/how hot does it get?/I
think I've already felt it," and in that cliff-hanger moment in "Young Men
Dead" the audience loves so much, when Maas cries out "we can live if we're
too afraid to die."

Anyway, they started in total darkness, Stephanie Bailey pounding away as if
she were the only drummer on Earth and if she let up for just a second the
world would stop turning. I can't think of another female drummer who is
such an impressive, perfect fit for a heavy rock band, although the way the
Black Angels gradually swap instruments as their set goes along is priceless
and adds to the ceremonial feeling of their shows. And the lights were so
low you could barely make out their faces as guitarist Christian Bland and
Mass sung the back-and-forth, call-and-response love-sick romp that is
"Manipulation" together: "watch out for her dark side/soon you'll figure
out/she's training you/and she's got you, don't she?" And then, with an
insane howl from Maas, who was clearly ready to take the night over, they
dove into "You On The Run" and "Black Grease" back-to-back and the show
really started, with the audience flipping out as one and a sudden burst of
projections flashing behind the band, including footage of Native American
ceremonies, real war film, pill popping, mass meat production, boxing, even
images of young female gymnasts spliced with pictures of huge black crosses.
Somehow it all made sense.

The music veered from their signature bluesy, super-charged tribal stomps to
long Eastern-influenced V.U.-style jams to slow, maniacal explosions (like
the San Francisco-inspired "Mission District," which hits so close to home
with me) that gradually and powerfully bring the crowd to a boiled-over,
wailing frenzy and directly blur the line between audience and artist in a
way that just doesn't happen anymore at rock shows.

But the Black Angels, in their current state of evolution, essentially
perform a thrilling mix of pain and pleasure, bound together in a huge sonic
blast of unconditional love without fear or mercy. Alex Maas kicks and
screams before, during and after their songs not because he is complaining
or attempting to escape from something: he is celebrating freedom from guilt
and corruption and thrusting a rusty dagger into the heart of what America
has become. Christian Bland plays a 12-string electric with so many effects
and so much volume that it literally hurts to listen, but you identify with
and embrace the pain. And the rest of the band is just so *into it* that you
can't help matching their rapture.

The funny thing I realized while walking out onto the streets of Denver
after midnight was that they didn't play my three or four favorite songs
("18 Years," "First Vietnamese War," "The Prodigal Son," etc.) and I didn't
notice or care, although I did leave wanting to hear "Doves."

And yes, I had seen the Black Angels before, in San Francisco, two years
ago…around the time their debut album (*Passover*) came out, and that show
was good. I was with a pack of friends from the TLXN crew, and Jesse had
just come down from Seattle and moved in with me. We brought a bottle of
Jameson into the Independent and killed it during the opening bands, and
when the Black Angels came out it was enjoyable…but just so much of the same
feeling and the same sound throughout their set. *Passover* is one of my
favorite albums of the past few years and I visit it weekly like an old
friend who really understands me, but its only weakness is that all the
songs sort of melt into one. The new album, *Directions to See a Ghost*, is
an animal of evolution and diversity, spanning many influences and emotions,
and a statement to the growth of a great young band.

That night at the Independent, I was busy chasing Angela's craziness around
the club, dreading the inevitable disconnection but loving the friendship
(and intoxication) all around. The Black Angels did not pull me, or us, in;
we left early, complaining that it was too much of the same. But last night
at the Bluebird Theater, in all honesty, might have been the single most
memorable night of music in my life, for sheer power and relevance for me
personally – surpassing even my experience seeing the Pogues and Sinead
O'Connor in Dublin, Ireland on Christmas Eve, although that was powerful for
completely different reasons, so I won't compare.

In essence, I felt like Lester Bangs at a *Funhouse*-era Stooges show, when
corporate rock was just beginning to show its ugly face and the primordial
thump of Iggy and his young Detroit troops showed the faithful what rock was
really about. The Black Angels are very young, too – and getting better.

Adam Perry