Biohazard, Clutch
November 15th, 2001
Brooklyn, NY @ L'Amour
Ah, the New York subway system. Easy, cheap, safe, reliable. Reliable? Well, reliable most of the time. Not reliable on Thursday, November 15, when something involving “police activity” and “anthrax” (this according to the MTA officers that herded us like lemmings from the 96th Street subway station) shut down the train on the West Side of Manhattan. You may be asking yourself, “Why the hell is she telling me this?” And of course, the answer is that anthrax false alarms make late critics, and this is why there is no review for either American Standard or Candiria.
Fortunately (and ironically) we did make it right before Biohazard’s set, getting to the show just in time to hear Tool’s “Blister” blaring from the speakers. I took it as a sign from God about the review (cause, you know, “Blistering” and “Blister”? Nevermind.)
Biohazard took the stage to the strains of Darth Vader’s theme from Star Wars. Vocalist/bassist Evan Seinfeld urged the crowd to “Fuck shit up,” as the band launched into “Shades of Grey.”
And boy, did they fuck shit up. Despite the no crowd-surfing rules at L’amour (the one that says if you do, a large man will rip you out of the crowd by the scruff of you neck and toss your ass out), Biohazard managed to inspire massive amounts of participation from their hometown crowd, both the kind that involves the audience singing along, and the kind that involves the young ‘uns hurling themselves around the very large, slightly psychotic pit. As the hardcore masters ripped through a mix of their older material and songs from the new Uncivilization, Seinfeld managed to get the crowd to yell along with their song about “the very nature of humankind,” “H.F.F.K.” If you’d like to recreate the Biohazard concert experience at home, might I suggest that you pump your fist in the air and scream “Hate! Fuck! Fight! Kill!” repeatedly? Seinfeld also got a circle pit going during the band’s Brooklyn-pride anthem “Wrong Side of the Tracks,” pausing mid-song when bodies began slamming into each other to remind the crowd to “Go in a circle!”
The Brooklyn natives (as all of the bands on the bill were) also addressed the issue of September 11 in both subtle and not so subtle ways. There was the American flag on guitarist Billy Graziadi’s instrument, which provided a nice focal point as he bounced all over the stage. Then there were Seinfeld’s remarks before the band pounded out “Black and White and Red All Over”: “This song is about all the isms in the world—fascism, racism, terrorism. Motherfuckers fuckin’ with us.” The band also paused for a moment of silence to remember “our fallen brothers at the World Trade Center and in New York City.”
Clutch also addressed 9/11, though much more subtly, with and American flag on the bass drum and singer Neil Fallon’s repeated assertion that “New York is very, very strong.”
Compared to Biohazard, Clutch looked decidedly unscary. Minimal body art, as opposed to Biohazard, who look like they were caught in the tattoo factory when it exploded. Gangbanger style wife-beaters? Not for Clutch. But Fallon was looking mighty badass in his collared Polo shirt.
Clutch is the type of band that makes people rethink their conceptions of metal. The band has huge, crunchy, flail-inducing guitars and rhythms, and yet at the same time Clutch has huge crunchy-granola leanings, with super-psychedelic lyrics (“Who rides the solar cycle with no hands ma?/ Who found the ark inside Texarkana?” from “Immortal”) and noodly improvisation. Clutch are the Phish of the spikes-and-leather set, the type of band that makes spliffs light up as soon as the lights go down.
This, of course, is not to diminish the band’s pure rock fury (incidentally, the title of their latest album). Because, let me tell you what I learned on the floor during Clutch’s set: Hippie mosh pits are brutal. “Ah, the Thursday night rock crowd,” Fallon said. “Not particularly concerned about you jobs, are you?” As Fallon alternated between proclaiming his lyrics from the front of the stage like a wild-eyed Baptist preacher and standing quietly in the corner during guitarist Tim Sult, bassist Dan Maines, and drummer Jean Paul Gaster’s instrumental interludes, the crowd worked itself into a state of frenzy, with bodies flying around all over the floor of the club, and maniacally screamed along with songs like “Who Wants to Rock?” – “Hey, now, what’s that I smell?" Clutch? It was most likely pot. And we all thought it made you mellow.
Reviewed by: Aimee Cabrera
