A Mosh Pit Grows in Babytown Brooklyn: Obits at The Rock Shop, 1/18/13

on Jan 20, 2013



“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.

 A diminutive woman holding a full-ish beer moves up to pose for an instagram behind the action, and then slides sideways into the throng. A few seconds later, the contents of her plastic cup predictably take flight, splash-landing on the head of, poetically, that first dancer. A man wearing earplugs, who had been grinning end-to-end since he started to pogo, loses his glasses, and, hearteningly, a few other dudes quickly move in to surround him so he can safely grab them off the floor.

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.