There’s a standard to uphold when your band is on every major metal music media outlet’s top ten “I like to jerk off to this” list. Always gotta bring your A-game, which can be a ton of pressure for some bands. Revocation is very much one of those banger bands, and this past Wednesday the 17th, they passed through Montreal with a monster bill of bands tailing them for us to frantically fap too from our designated comfy dog pile in the crowd of Foufounes Electriques.
The night cracked open at Foufounes Electriques with your standard Montreal welcome mat of death metal. This working stiff might not have caught the whole set but I can still safely say that The Path to R’lyeh stays the course of (albeit contradictory to say) traditional progressive deathcore act. Erring a little more to the tune of The Faceless, this was without question a tight act but not a very out of the box act. It isn’t to necessarily say they’re unoriginal, but it is to say that the small amount I did see, didn’t exactly break the mould for me. You be the judge.
Following up with your second helping of local lunacy is Shape the Above. This being far from my first STA show, it was still the first in some time to which apparently, I’ve been snoozing in class while these cats changed sounds ever so slightly. What was once more akin to that of the melodic side of older Contortionist is now more on the heavier side of older Contortionist with a death-y-er twist. To clarify, this is more to accentuate the fact that this act has gotten drastically more abrasive following what seems like a slight lineup change. Spectacular performance all in all and if you somehow have been sleeping on this act entirely, do yourself the favour of giving them your undergarments and time of day.
To head off the touring package we’ve got Yautja slinging utter nastiness out of Nashville, TN. Think High on Fire on NAILS brand steroids. Loud, consistent, and fucking angry. Enjoyable but also a little mundane. Incredible sound quality, but even a little too loud for my already deaf ass. Fucking liked it but couldn’t quite get into the fucking love it brackets. Catch it again? You bet your fucking genitals I would.
The entire reason this show got me wet to begin with was for Rivers of Nihil of Reading, PA. Think Meshuggah but with the smoothness of “Careless Whisper” a la Steve Gregory (That’s right, fucking WHAM! reference. Bitch). The wall of sound that is RON is almost immeasurable and utterly astonishing. Where there is ferocity, there is also sultry ambiance. Where there is your (not really) typically progressive deathcore, jazz interludes will then interject to create this wave of emotion and alternate dimension to a song. the fact that this is even remotely translatable live is completely fucking beyond me. You will listen to Where Owls Known My Name on record, see it live, and be incapable of telling the difference with the one exception of the sweltering erection induced by sheer proximity to the source. Fine, the Saxophone parts are not played live but via a recording, but so is the factuality of my sex life and you don’t see me complaining.
Then there was Revocation. Boston, MA has spat out some of the best heavy metal has to offer over the years, and these four cats are absolutely among the ranks of the most talked about in recent years. Album after album has received the praise of kings, setting an incredibly high bar of expectation for their live performance. This expectation is met with zero disappointment, and if anything, a slight sense of “why do I even bother.” Everything about this act screams stereotypical death metal; Inconceivable guitar work, breakneck pace, lyrics about aliens and death, and a room full of people chucking their bodies against other unsuspecting people haphazardly. It’s not the originality of the band that creates such spectacular performance in this case, but the otherworldly level of skill and perfection in the delivery. I also wanna remind the members of the jury that although I have a love for this venue, there is no hiding the fact that the room sound is typically trashcan worthy, but this only makes a band that transcends this fact even more impressive. The night ends, “Witch Trails” rings out its last note and where once I had genitalia, now only a barren wasteland akin to that of a melted Ken doll remains.
Written by Jason Greenberg
Photography by Eric Brisson Photography
*edited by Mike Milito