Written by martin de leon II
Aug 09, 2003 at 08:00 PM
ImageWhite Guitar Mathematics. The Death of Bunnies. The Dialectic of Opposites. Sweaty, angular-haired ethnic kids (whiteboys included), jerkin’ their thangs to the architectural rhythms rendered into reality from the scruffy streets of San Francisco by-way of the razor-edge melodies of Deerhoof.SCENE: A quiet, cloudless night in August at the crisp, sweltering sweaty space of Rubbergloves, trainless tracks sleeping outside its doors. The aforementioned, the sonic backdrop for the space-time sexuality of guitarists, Chris Cohen and John Dietrich aching chords, non-linear riffs, Out There constellation orgasm-drumming of Greg Saunier and the quantum-theorized vocals of ittie-biddie Japanese singer Satomi Matsuzaki.

POPULACE: dim lights shadowing the bespectacled geeky, black folk, turquoise-panted indie(white) kids, spiky-haired ladies shakin’ their moneymakers to the anti-gravity grooves while berry-red Chuck wearin?Latin ladies and Ginsbergian-bearded scruffy dudes all danced in the pitch-black holes of Deerhoof’s rhythm dynamics, scouring their Japanese dictionaries to deconstruct Satomi words (did she just say bunny bunny bunny bunn…y!?). The between-song quietness of the respectful crowd infers the awe-inducing capabilities of Deerhoof formless, yet meticulously sculpted songs. Start. Stop.

MUSICA: It began with Noise. Mouths morphed words into meaning, bubbling through the hazy feedback of Deerhoof machinery (are they starting?). Gargantuan, space-splitting snare-taps incited Panda Panda Panda and Dummy Discards a Heart from their latest album, Apple O’ stringy sounds flying from frets as the guitarists exchanged expressionist dirty riffs and sliding mononotes. Slicing temporality, speaking in polished single notes, the folk from Deerhoof were less musicians than spatial professors, schoolin?the phonograph undergrads that beauty can be born through the sustain of one simple sound. Shifting the shape of such sounds between Ecstasy and Serenity, the finality of each, ahem, song, found the capacity crowd motionless, tongues muted in amazement. Mouths slapped the greasy floor. Eyelids lit up, let light in, widened their gaze.

Dreamy drums dripped: Saunier’s snare-tap dissection was a study in the dynamics of acoustic lovemaking. His whispery brown hair sloshing through the air, atonally replicating the BANGCRASHTHUMPTHUMP-silencesilencesilence-BRRRRRUMPITTTTTTSSSSS- BOM that slithered through Matsuzaki’s disabled syllables. At the finality of each cut, Saunier’s thin, lanky body rose from the small crate he sat upon and trucked on over to Satomi’s mic, each word tapping on thin air, thanking the crowd for their presence. He caught his breath, sat down and persisted to thump the night away. Their early sonic matter intensely swelled the set, forming a climax when Saunier rose and took Satomi’s bass as she sat at his drum crate and banged away while he mimicked her emaciated vocals and accent for a formless, yet structured composition. Crunchy guitars coaxed the nameless (are they improvising?) cuts, until guitarist Chris Cohen swapped canvases with Matsuzaki and poked at the McCartney-style bass while Satomi whelped her cartoony, delicious words.

The End, born of rapidity, was here. An anorexic “Thank You” from Satomi and the wall-bending applause from the generous shaggy-haired students, noise scholars and those decoding Matsuzaki linguistically anarchic noodles was incepted.

I, smoke glued to the tips of my fingers, listened for a new planet to be born, for their sounds to simulate the inception of a new universe: all I got was dirty looks from women and a huge ‘fro all up in my way. So it goes, and thus it went Deerhoof in Denton, reminding us why breath is formed, how architecture and guitars are wed and to respect “China”. Keep it dirty dirty.