No, don’t kick it. That’s not your CD skipping. It’s how amped madmen and much admired duo Brian Chippendale and Brian Gibson perform, in tight, repetitive loops that induce head banging, hypnotic beats, wherein lies the mystery surrounding Providence’s own Lightning Bolt.
Cofounder of the Fort Thunder Collective, which was featured in the lofty 2002 Whitney Biennial and recently RISD’s Wunderground exhibit, Chippendale penned two incoherently thick, insanely detailed graphic novels, MAGGOTS and NINJA. Roberta Smith, art critic for the New York Times, describes Chippendale’s mesmerizing doodles as “tribal psychedelic.” Still, it’s well within the flea market aesthetic of Olneyville-chic organically grown in Eagle Square across from discharged General Electric, as well as a succession of mills in which to squat and swap along the “beautiful ink” which is the Woonasquatucket River. Gibson produced an hour of manic animations available on DVD perfectly suitable for the Cartoon Channel’s Adult Swim (talks pending). Most are minimal, much like Underdog, and paired with his own musical soundtrack. There’s no relation between Barkley and the new Disney cartoon, Bolt. Art is how they make their living when they’re not at play, like Lost Boys in Neverland.
One wonders whether ‘Bolt was turned off touring for a year because mainstream critics misunderstand them; they are inconveniently multifaceted. People who’ve never met them associate Gibson and Chippendale with “guitars and male strippers”. Pitchfork’s Stosuy aligned them with the long disbanded Velvet Underground. Spin’s Sisario dubbed their performances “unconventional” their sound “noise-punk”. Stylus Magazine’s Panzner said they aren’t a band but a “reckless, natural disaster”. Wire’s Licht just gave up and printed a convo between Brians, the best read yet. Trying to pigeonhole them into some existing genre is pointless. A ‘Bolt performance is simply loud, masterful, mental and original. It ain’t noise; get over it. Celebrate and dance.
The Brians themselves, conversely, are gracious, thoughtful citizens, mindful of the community in which they live, reasonably generous with their time, respectably into their mid-thirties in a few respects. Chippendale campaigned for Obama, got out the vote, and sat on a community symposium impaneled to discuss loft space and lousy landlords. He’s avoids driving and pursues zero carbon footprint. Of course they’re liberals, probably anarchists, freedom fighters in the truest Rhode Island tradition. Weren’t Rhody militiamen America’s first revolutionaries? Echoes reverberate loudly here. Both credit having excess space afforded by industrial abandonment as seminal to their artistic flowering. But it’s a wacky weed being gradually plowed under by gentrification. No worries, they don’t have to go too far to find empty mills in a state with the nation’s worst unemployment. Nature on its own creates life in a vacuum, while yesterday’s media seldom recognizes innovative genius.
The award winning documentary Beautiful Losers about similar DIY artists is on worldwide tour and now showing in London, where ‘Bolt’s last tour commenced with 30 one night stands in 29 Western European cities. So, why are two distinguished local representatives of a major art movement back making music on tour? Not only are they back at it, they just closed Catskills’ All Tomorrow’s Parties festival on the same bill as My Bloody Valentine and Shellac. They’re soon to release their only album since 2005; according to their Bizzaro logic, it’s always tour then record and distribute. MSN News has knocked off their licks for bumpers. Their sound is also being featured on major labels.
Chippendale’s furious drumming pops up on Björk’s latest album Volta, as well as her most recent single. One Little Indian released “Nátturá” on October 20th to critical acclaim. In a televised interview, Mark Radcliff asked the infamous Icelandic chanteuse, “I thought “Earth Intruders” had a pounding beat but “Nátturá” is some rhythmic experience, isn’t it? Björk replied, “Yeah, thanks a lot, It’s actually Brian Chippendale, who played drums for “Earth Intruders”, but we didn’t use it [did use his beats on “Dull Flame of Desire”]. While I was touring, I took his drums and edited them, and I wound up with this song.” Mark asked, “He’s a member of Lightning Bolt, isn’t he? There’s only two of them, and what a racket they make, don’t they? In a good way.” Björk giggled, “Yeah, they’re incredible, so inspiring I bought my partner a death knell kit.” That pretty much nails it; any group who comes close, say The Mars Volta, needs twice as many members to output half of what they do.
Meanwhile, Chippendale and Matt Brinkman, as Mindflayer, did finish the Expedition to the Hairier Peaks with some tasty tracks. Brian gave me Black Pus I through IV, but I think medicine can cure it. Both Brinkman and Gibson bring something special to their pairings with Chippendale, respectively, itchy electronic beats and frenetic free jazz bass lines. ‘Bolt’s last album, Hypermagic Mountain, begins amidst a calvary charge and snarling stampede, builds to the peak of the title track, and abruptly ends mid crescendo as if falling off a cliff, begging the question, “What’s next?” But they don’t prefer such metaphors, evidence of lies in our driven society, and purposefully abandon intelligible lyrics while they grope for truths. Writers usually describe the latter duo as one casual/talkative and the other intense/taciturn, which is not quite true. Gibson answers emails, but zones out around show time, and once it begins, stands practically motionless. Chippendale is too distracted to reply unless you pin him down in person, when he’s friendly and placid, until recklessly flailing away with those baseball bats he often breaks.
I caught up with ‘Bolt at the defunct Living Room, ‘Bolt’s former neighborhood venue. The funky dive was surrounded by fixie bikes and a long line of twentysomething patrons, punctuated with mohawked, pierced and tattooed denizens of the night seldom seen downtown, weaving in the half empty parking lot between the new Irving gas station and Dunkin’ Donuts. Noticed Gibson’s club van parked by the door as I got my hand stamped. Chippendale, characteristic in a bad haircut, baggies and a tee, stood behind some card tables peddling handmade posters, silk screened prints, and a quartet of rare Black Pus albums to supplement his Lightning Bolt and Mindflayer CDs available through ITunes. Gibson, with the look of a juvenile delinquent ducking a chaperone, paced through a packed house. Both happily signed the liner sheet of my Hypermagic Mountain CD with an arty squiggle and Barkey the dog. These headliners had to wait while fellow Load Records artists concluded their experimental and raucous sets. True to form, they had erected 3800 watts worth of Ampeg amplifiers on the floor in a blind corner, around which had camped savvy fans. Above the no frills drum kit suitably hung a 4 foot convex mirror, the kind you put at tricky intersections to see oncoming traffic.
No sooner had the previous act’s reverberations subsided, Lightning Bolt crackled and squealed to life. A jam of notes charged past like the green flag lap at NASCAR. Their one hour set was a combination of new unnamed tunes and a couple cuts from Hypermagic Mountain, not that a set list mattered, as so much of what they do is improvisational. Tweakers in the mosh pit began to bob and weave. The humidity from human BTUs built to oceanic, shirts were stripped, and sweat flowed. Chippendale had on his usual pale ski mask with built-in microphone over hearing protective monkey ears with caution colored tassels, which flew straight out under duress. The only intelligible lyrics directed, "Buckle up!" but to whom? Head bangers hung from all high ground and speaker cabinets like gargoyles, a couple diving into outstretched arms and floating the human wave as if buoyed by sonic life vests. The sheer wattage of trance beats slammed like rip tides. Front row or the mirror were the only ways to glimpse the fury. Exciting doesn’t describe something so ritualistic, updated urban ghost dancing, an experience not to be missed. But remember to bring ear plugs. Watch for posters on street poles to find out when and where, because they don’t play The Man’s games.
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