Brutal Truth @ Double Door, Chicago
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Band reunions don’t excite me. Nostalgia is a debilitating condition. Cashing in on it is preying on the weak. Every dollar spent on a reunited band could go to an up-and-coming one. Sure, it’s nice to see bands get props if they didn’t get them back in the day. But if they’re paid and well-fed now, will they stay lean and hungry?
Brutal Truth dispelled such fears. They’ve been reunited for a few years now, and reports of recent shows have been positive. A new record, Evolution through Revolution, shows a desire to move forward. In fact, the band opened its show at Chicago’s Double Door on March 21 by playing the record in its entirety. No old songs to warm up the crowd – just bam, new stuff.
From the first note, it was clear that the band “had it.” Few bands have such casual confidence. Converge has it. So does The Red Chord. It’s forged from hundreds of nights on the road facing every live situation possible. You see it in the way bands set up. No fussing over technical details – just plug in and destroy.
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Of course, Brutal Truth hasn’t done hundreds of nights on the road since the last millennium. The members have had jobs, families, projects, and other bands. But somehow they sounded not like the geezers they were. (One year in grindcore time is at least two years in real world time.) Never mind that Dan Lilker was the only one with long hair now, or that Kevin Sharp looked like a stray fisherman. The eyes got a handful; the ears got a feast.
Not all at once, though. Lilker’s bass was an invigorating rumble. But Rich Hoak seemingly had no snare drum. Guitarist Erik Burke, the one new member, sounded like a black metal demo stage left. Kevin Sharp barked and screamed over the mess. Still, the new stuff hit hard. Yakuza’s Bruce Lamont and Bloodyminded’s Mark Solotroff forcibly inserted sax skronk and noisecraft. Sharp responded by jamming his mic into Lamont’s sax bell. Upon Sharp’s announcement of the airing of the new album, the crowd cheered. Crowds only cheer for new material when they’re being ground to a paste.
The snare mic eventually kicked in. Smack, crack, and other addictions ensued. Hoak is arresting to watch. He doesn’t move around the kit like a metal drummer. He’s got punk and jazz in him. Hoak is like a combination of Ventor, Buddy Rich, and an ape. His facial expressions would be funny if he weren’t kicking so much ass. Burke never stopped sounding like bees in a bucket. But fuck it. The rest of the band was on fire. You know Slayer’s live setup, with huge stacks of amp cabinets, most of which are turned off? Imagine those very much turned on, and closing in on you. The attack felt like a moving wall. Somehow four men sounded like an army.
That was just the first set. I had to get a Red Bull to keep up. After intermission, the band returned, armed with the classics. “Birth of Ignorance” started up, and the rest of the night was a blur. Lilker: stage right, freakishly tall, calmly deploying low end ordnance. He has a subtle technique of picking successive strings with the same upstroke. (“Economy picking” in guitar terms; I’ve never seen a bassist do it.) Hoak: flying around the kit with seemingly three arms. Sharp: throwing water on the crowd, in return getting splashed with beer by producer Sanford Parker up front. It was a night one didn’t want to end. The Chicago winter outside didn’t help.
