“Is this a
real argument?” – Rick Froberg
“I think I get it.” – Sohrab Habibion
Three songs
in to their set on Friday night, Obits were as bemused as their audience.
After a pair of churning openers, they began to pick up the pace. In
the center of the Rock Shop’s modest showroom, amidst all the reservedly
nodding heads, a young man, high on life (and possibly other things), began pogoing into people. Unsurprisingly, he was met with resistance, ultimately resulting in a
verbal confrontation with a shoo-in for Mr. Autumn Man. Of all things, it was on this kerfuffle of manners that the night's energy
pivoted. Someone in the back hollered advocations for the young man’s right
to dance, at which point Froberg and Habibion said what everyone else was thinking.
Here are
some other things that happened: two bras were flashed (one for a
picture, one seemingly just for funsies) in a not-ironic-enough way,
an empty beer cup was carelessly tossed to the lip of the stage (nearly grazing a few
heads), there was a quickly aborted crowd-surfing attempt…and that was just two
pals from Long Island. Not too shabby for a band featuring men well in to their
forties, some of them card-carrying members of the Park Slope Food Co-op. Obits, of
course, are not the typical gang of responsible, middle-aged fellas.
Listening to
Drive Like Jehu’s eponymous first album back in 1991, you couldn’t be blamed
for hearing the frantic tear of Rick Froberg’s voice flailing in the din of post-garage-punk spasms, and thinking to yourself, “there’s no way this guy is
gonna last doing this for twenty more years.” Yet, here we are. There is a perceptible, gradual line of calming
down from Drive Like Jehu through Hot Snakes, and now on to Obits – but it’s a
very relative mellowing. It has taken Froberg those two decades to dial it down
from 9 to, say, 7. At that rate, he’ll be releasing his jazz and/or acoustic
album some time after we’re all long dead. Sure, Obits are probably more
melodic and diverse than Hot Snakes or DLJ were, but saying as much is often
code for losing steam (and the puns a name like “Obits” invites doesn’t make it
easy to resist). In their case, it is more of a matter of slowing down just enough to try out new twists.
It is hard
to exaggerate the staying power of Drive
Like Jehu. Much like Doolittle
and Spiderland, for two examples, it
remains unshackled to its era. The same goes for their major-label follow-up, Yank Crime, but there’s something
singular about their debut, which fulfilled and far-exceeded the promise of
Froberg and DLJ-mate John Reis’ preceding incarnation, Pitchfork. If you have
ever been in a rock band whose sound was described more than once as
“unhinged,” or your guitar playing as “angular,” you probably owe Froberg &
Co. a beer.
Their
lyrics, too, deserve hearty accolades. For one, there's the priceless opening lines of “Caress,” where Froberg, after a searing rave-up,
maniacally wails “Gracie, we’re making
babies, yeah, we’re barefoot on the tiles!” That almost-too-vivid portrait is chased by gems such as “pleasure is
your crime/junior is your punishment.” (One really has to hear them in context
to fully appreciate their bite.) The acidic wit spray-painted across “Atom
Jack,” “Good Luck in Jail,” et al, was an especially welcome counter-offer to
the angst and melodrama churned up by that whole Grunge thing that was taking
off at the time. Hammering out art-punk with integrity might not have put gold
flakes in the schlager back in the day – there were times when the debut went
out of print and copies could be found in used bins for around twenty bucks a
pop – but, as Froberg asserted with the first song of the first album by his
post-Jehu band, Hot Snakes, “If Credit’s What Matters I’ll Take Credit.” Obits also
don’t lack for droll humor, though perhaps worldly adult matters like economics
(i.e. 2011’s Moody, Standard and Poor)
are targeted more than before.
Toward the
end of their set, Habibion – whose own 90’s rock resume features the great
Edsel -- checks the time. (Automatic) Midnight has passed, and it is now
officially Froberg’s birthday. Cheers go up. Some in the crowd try to rouse a verse of
“Happy Birthday,” though it doesn’t fully take, maybe because many in
the room are out of breath. Defying presumption, in the wake of the first lone dancer’s
persistence, the number of moshers has grown exponentially.
The energy
level of any given rock gig typically, naturally, decreases at least somewhat with
the performer’s exertion of energy as said show progresses. There are always
exceptions, though; tonight, Obits are one of them. They feed on and
reciprocate the vibe as one-by-one the audience shakes off the shackles of
public behavioral expectations. When the last song is announced, the moshers
respond accordingly in a last fit of controlled semi-violence. Habibion is
psyched to keep up this human aurora borealis of Babytown, Brooklyn, and
everyone is rewarded with an unplanned encore, taking all three further chances
to cut loose. As they unsling their axes, Froberg notes not wanting to push it,
but he might have been the only one in the room who felt that way.
