I found myself in the violet music tank again, half way through Swervedriver’s set. This British alt-rock favorite from the ’90s was delivering their murky dirges to a full house of murmuring English accents, The band engaged the crowd occasionally, dropping out to a full and discordant organized distracted sound. I liked it a lot.
Before I knew it they were gone. And so was the crowd.
Failure opened the set with “Solar Eyes,” a middle of the road pulsing track off their new record In the Future Your Body Will be the Farthest Thing From Your Mind. The new record wasn’t disappointing, which was a concern, as I was an avid listener to Fantastic Planet and Magnified as a younger soul. They opened with three songs off the new record, and those songs sounded lacking in this setting. Some bands just don’t hold up.
They have an amazing shelf life for a band that puts three to ten years between each record. Ken Andrews is a clear-cut producer, defining and cultivating their grimy space sounds.
I’ve never treated Failure as a cheery listening experience, live or recorded. Themes of extraterrestrials, heroin use, and post-apocalyptic scenes run throughout.
Next they dropped four from Fantastic Planet, 1996’s grunge/shoe gaze cult classic: “Another Space Song”, “Smoking Umbrellas”, “Pillowhead” &“ Stuck on You”.
I could feel the less than half full Fillmore blink when the old songs touched down.
Were two dudes up front and I the only excited audience members?
The night placated on.
I cringe, wondering: can a fan base or audience ruin a show? I think in this case my hesitant thought comes correct. Ken Andrews has flawless vocals, steady accurate drums, textured and layered guitar effects, great production, and new material that doesn’t suck. The former certainly aren’t to blame. Why was this Tuesday vibes show so dead energy and lacking? I’m gonna come out and say it. Too many bros. The first three rows barely bouncing, and one fist shaker aren’t enough to carry it. The band was putting out, but the baseball-capped middle 30s to 40s men barely bobbed their heads.
One fan brought his two sons, who seemed about seven and ten. They stared on, tapping a toe, maybe. How could this be? The band was loud and full.
I left thinking: I’m buying Fantastic Planet, and the new record on vinyl, stopping by the cannabis club, and clicking on my lava lamp. This hard rocking, Pink Floyd-esque perfection deserves my full attention, laying on my floor, staring into their atmospheric spacescapes. If I want to be together and separate, I’ll do it at home.
