There’s a Jean Michel Jarre light display high-beaming through
an eerie
mist, a piano whistles ominously to itself, shadowy figures
- hair draped across their faces, enter the stage, shortly thereafter
there’s
a drum clap and light explosion so loud it reverberates through your
nostrils. Welcome to Secret Machines country.
Texan trio the Secret Machines have established an effectively small, yet devout
group of followers since the release of their extraordinary debut album; Now
Here Is Nowhere in 2004, patrons of their brooding, glacial rock-scape include
Noel Gallagher, David Bowie and, um… me. A reason for this is because
the ‘Machines exist in their own hermetically sealed vacuum; separating
themselves from the constraints of mainstream ‘rock’. They have more
in common with Sigur Rós than Maximo Park.
So separate from the pack are the Secret Machines, they’re not even bothering
with a support act. This, admittedly, isn’t quite as cool, as it means
I have to sit on my own playing Space Invaders on my phone for an hour. But when
the band does appear, with their pentecostal organ-sound, their elysian guitar
chimes and the meatiest drum sound in the world, it’s almost spiritual.
Songs from their looming second album; Ten Silver Drops seem to steer their musical
vernacular towards a larger sense of the odd, with some beguiling harmonies and
even a dollop of blues. Yet for the most part, their essence has stayed in tact,
as with songs from their first album: Sad and Lonely and Road Leads Where It’s
Led still forces a gentleman in a red shirt to swing his arms around like a helicopter,
as well as making a number of approving (slightly over zealous) gestures towards
our hosts. The rest of us stand with an intent scowl, stroking our chins in approval,
nodding intermittently to the monstrous, recurring drum beat.
Intelligently opting for a brief set (holding back the prog-urges)
the band appear predominantly as silhouettes in front of an ocean of
reds, blues and greens. Drummer Josh Garza is the key to the Secret Machines
sound; his thunderous, repetitive, but never monotonous, beat allows
guitarist Ben Curtis’s dancing to go
from a gentle nod to a full scale guitar-wrestling spectacle during the crushing
First Wave Down; and keyboard / bass player Brandon Curtis’s lead vocal
wavers from childlike to colossal.
The Secret Machines produce heavy music for those who hate heavy music; it’s
John Bonham beating Pink Floyd to death with drum sticks. Their stage presence
and music is so powerful it destroys any conception of the typical, clichéd
live performance, the band only mutter a few words throughout their entire set: ‘Thank
you’, ‘Our album is out Monday’ and, interestingly; ‘Thanks
again.’ The Secret Machine’s demographic, chiefly of the bearded
muso orientation, is also open to all who are tired with lifeless, vacuous ‘rock’ music,
and want to experience something fresh, epic and beautiful.