REVIEW: Boy Harsher Rises from the Ashes
09/25 @ Basilica Hudson
Photos by Pete Perry
“The applause and the performance were an hour-long conversation between artist and audience. The raw energy seemed to feed back and forth into one another as Boy Harsher ripped through a perfectly crafted set… Thumping basslines, arpeggiated synths, drum hits torn straight from the ’80s, and vocal runs that sounded like they'd put you to sleep just as soon as they'd stab you in the back, pushed us to our limits.”
One of the toughest parts of terminal cancer is the aftermath. I'd spent two years preparing myself for my mom's passing and handled it with more grace than expected. What I didn't prepare for was the void left after the instant I'd been focusing on. I kept thinking to myself "That's it?" She'd been laid to rest, prayers were said, her affairs were in order, I went back to work, and the world kept turning without her.
I often dig back deep into the past, push the regrets aside, and try to focus on my happiest memories of her. The image that shines brightest is an unexpected one. I was bringing her home from a chemo appointment; every time I saw her walk out weaker than she walked in. The chemo took her away from me little by little long before she passed.
My mom was a disco queen. She lavished in the driving, groovy beats of Earth, Wind and Fire, Kool and the Gang, Tavares and anything that got her out on the dance floor in her younger years. This left us little common ground musically. The aggressive nonsense I like would leave her worried about the shows I'd go to and the mosh pits I used to frequent. I'd go scrambling for a tape or a playlist she wouldn't hate whenever she climbed into my car. Most days, we'd chat over the music, or I'd switch it to NPR after a couple songs.
Then, one day, as I was paying attention to traffic, something I never thought I'd see happened. At first I saw a hand moving, then fingers snapping, arms waving, shoulders twisting, eyes closed, and head bobbing. She was dancing. I couldn't think of the last time I'd seen her dance. Every movement brought her pain at that time, but none of it mattered in that moment. She was suddenly 19 again, without a care in the world, dancing the night away. I laughed in disbelief and asked her if she really liked it. "OH yeah!" she said as she turned my passenger seat into a nightclub. Suddenly, there was a beautiful, soft patch of common ground between us. For a few minutes that feel far too short now, we laughed and danced together, making the impossible happen.
The song was “Tears” by Boy Harsher.
Boy Harsher's new album Get Mean is a departure for the group. In the wake of family loss, divorce, side projects, and a long hiatus, Jae Matthews and Augustus Muller ask the listener, "How has grief transformed us?" The dark throbbing synths and beating drums of their earlier work are reborn into pop-influenced plinking leads, complex, catchy drum patterns, and subtle but effective live guitar and bass. The lyrics mourn a life once expected that has since vanished. Many of the songs reflect on a moment from a perspective that is years removed, knowing that they can't go back. They showcase their ability to take tragedy in stride and allow themselves to evolve. Songs like “Faulty,” “Pray For Me,” and “Falling” look at failed and changed relationships with regret. Sometimes for actions taken and other times for patterns not recognized. They haven't shirked their dark past, but grown beyond it, while still holding a part of it deep within their core. Don't expect the Osmonds, but their most gothic fans may be surprised by them veering towards the sun a bit after so much time in the shadows.
As I got in line at Basilica, I'll admit that I was nervous. I'd only covered a couple shows since my mom's death. Part of me felt that I'd lost my mojo as a writer and the voice that once came so effortlessly now felt forced. I worried that I wasn't up to a show this monumental. After nearly a decade of wanting to see them, I wondered if I could do the experience justice. Like the band, I was a new man looking to the past. The person who wrote those articles was stuck back in time, and as much as I tried to reach back and pull him forward, I came up empty-handed. I triple checked my camera gear, paced in the line a bit, and reminisced about the time I took a trip with my parents to the antique shop next door. The sun began to set, the first band began to soundcheck with frantic drums, and a howling train rolled past into the night. I resolved myself to simply go in there, hug the barricade, and allow the experience to wash over me.
Evanora:Unlimited started the night. I'd first come across them via our own Maggie Aulman's interview from earlier this month. Hidden behind a beaded curtain mask attached to a fur pillbox hat and draped in silks, scarves, and flowing fabric, it took me a while to understand what and who I was seeing. The getup brought the otherworldly to the stage and put a distance between him and the audience. This caused us all to lean in a little closer until we'd recoil at the unknown. There was something futuristic and dangerous about it, too. I couldn't help but conjure up images of him dancing around a fire in a bombed-out city after the big one. There were suggestions of a chaotic past and a tragic future. Backed up by a laptop and a live drummer, Evanora flittered between slow ballad-like numbers and frenzied romps that caused a mosh pit to break out at my back. Calling it a dynamic set would be an understatement. The setlist felt jagged and start-stopped between slow and fast songs in a unique way that pushed the audience's reception of each to the extreme. As soon as the dust settled, you were brought into his arms, then jarred again by crushing synths and freight train drums.
Choir Boy cooled the temperature back down and brought the crowd into a state of grace. Lilting keys, gentle saxophone, and softly plucked guitars laid a feather bed foundation for some of the best vocal work I've heard in my life. Choir Boy's singer had a seemingly unlimited range and laser-accurate control over every note. I'd normally describe his skills as deadly, but in this case “angelic” seems much more appropriate. Their name didn't lie. There was something beautifully religious about their set. The fearless and effortless vocal runs brought me back to my youth in a choir loft surrounded by voices that seemed to draw power from God himself. No mere mortals could have made those sounds. There was something too beautiful to be human about the whole set and as they all walked off stage, I felt like I had just had a run in with the divine. I don't mean to gloss over the other musicians, though. It was easy to focus on the vocals, but it would be a shame to miss the way that the guitars and bass expertly plucked every note so they danced around on a soft field of synth. Even if this was an instrumental set, I can't imagine I would've enjoyed it any less.
By this point my heart was racing. I'd been waiting with bated breath for the better part of a decade to see Boy Harsher. Their songs had been the soundtrack to milestones and miracles and dark times I couldn't wait to forget. As I watched their crew set the stage, I thought of the comeback tours of the rockstars I'd idolized in my youth. They were more often concerning than fulfilling. Geriatric superstars trying their hardest to be 25 again often miss the mark entirely. A stagehand wheeled out a CRT TV and left it right in front of me. Another stagehand ran cable and plugged in a video feed from a small handicam. Trepidation turned to intrigue. Strobes were tested, footage was cast to LED walls, and an altar covered in synths, samplers, and about 10 more feet of audio gear was wheeled out. The flurry of activity died down suddenly, and the lights went low. Whatever was about to happen was happening.
The two performers walked out onto the stage in total darkness with flashlights guiding them up the steps. Little was said before launching into the opening track from the new album, Ronny. My worries faded instantly. Lighting cues flickered and bounced along with the bass and the subwoofers worked overtime. Synth lines rose and fell, and as Jae's vocal chops warmed up, she came into her own. I could tell her nerves melted away as she got back to where she belonged. The smile on her face was unmistakable. Between lines, her grin was magnetic. I got the feeling she was back right where she wanted to be after such a long and harrowing journey away. As the last sound faded, the crowd went wild. Not only with applause, but with screams, yelps, yips, hoots, hollers, and every other noise a human could be compelled to make. There was something deeply primal about the crowd's reaction. We, too, had finally gotten what we'd waited for for so long.
The applause and the performance were an hour-long conversation between artist and audience. The raw energy seemed to feed back and forth into one another as Boy Harsher ripped through a perfectly crafted set. Every song we all wanted to hear off the new record was interspersed with every song I would've begged to hear from their back catalog. Thumping basslines, arpeggiated synths, drum hits torn straight from the ’80s, and vocal runs that sounded like they'd put you to sleep just as soon as they'd stab you in the back, pushed us to our limits. There was nearly no time between songs, aside from some quick quips. "We're a dance band. I better see you dancing!" set the mood for the night. Fun, harsh, and heavy tracks backed up by expertly executed stage design and lighting got the crowd more than moving. We were all whipped into a frenzy. I must've been screaming the words, because I left my voice somewhere behind the barricade. As a photographer I'm often torn between getting the shot and enjoying the show, but by the encore, I had no choice. I put my camera down and followed their command.
For a few minutes, I was taken away from myself and given to the beat. I was me, now, exactly as I was. I was the me from back then that I'd been searching for. I was the me from the line, unsure of myself. I was a 68 year old woman, fresh from a chemo infusion, looking for a little joy to grab onto and hold for all it was worth. I was that same woman at 19 years old in the disco with my friends without a care in the world. I understood her choices now. It wasn't about the music itself, but how it moved you and linked you to those you were dancing with. I stopped being an individual and became part of a tapestry surrounded by dancing threads that made up something so much greater than the sum of all us. I felt woven with threads going back centuries, dancing in venues, bars, clubs, villages, and around bonfires. I felt the connection through space and time that every person has to every other person who is, has been, and ever will be. In that moment, I knew exactly what it was to be human.
In the same way that tragedy had transformed us, an act of pure joy despite hardship transformed us too. I wasn't who I was before, I wasn't who I was during, I had evolved yet again into someone new. I clung to the barricade as the lights came up and saw the world anew. I walked back into the dark night and knew that it wouldn't all be okay, but that I would.
