Last night's performance by Death Grips was one of the strangest I’ve ever witnessed, and not because the band onstage was the most passionate cadre of outlaw oddballs this side of G.G. Allin. Usually when a show “starts” at 8 p.m., I wander in around 9:30, miss one opener, then manhandle a beer or three before the people I’m actually there to see show up. But not this time – there were no openers, and Death Grips played, by my clock, from precisely 8:32 to 9:29 p.m. [Text by David, photos by Tracy.]
It was jarring, to say the least, and at first I was a little upset. Doesn’t the State Theatre know we call them warm-up acts for a reason? Aren’t there any number of metal, noise, or rap artists around here that would have been great openers?
But on second thought, it’s a safe bet this was a conscious choice by the band (the State certainly would have loved to sell more beer), and maybe even a safety measure. Because even without an opener or two, even without time for the young, thronging crowd to get liquored up, the place pretty much exploded into an orgy of chaotic energy the instant Death Grips hit the stage.
There was zero fanfare – no stage patter, no “Hello, St. Pete” – just a low rumbling synth as MC Ride, drummer Zach Hill, and producer Flatlander walked on and launched with laser-like focus into making noise. The sound system at the State was pretty muddy – overwhelmed, maybe, by the peak-pushing combo of off-kilter electro beats, guttural vocals, and relentless, thunderous live drums. If this were a ‘90s movie, Death Grips would cameo as the band in the menacing, too-cool bar where our gothic and/or post-apocalyptic hero hunts Satan himself through the strobed crowd. It’s hard to imagine a sound more futuristic and confrontational.
Ride is the man at the center of the storm, barking and writhing like Iggy Pop, going into seizures at the peak of songs like “Guillotine,” and dripping sweat over his fat-free, tattooed muscles in a way that my girlfriend commented on maybe more times than I’d have liked. This is a man totally transfixed by his work, channeling something hugely powerful into the air – but, weirdly, it’s not the kind of rage or menace you might expect from the sound itself. Just as much as it’s clear from his too-rare interviews, seeing Ride work in person lets you see the good spirit beneath the bleak imagery of his lyrics.
And that was the vibe of the night (or, more precisely, the hour) – utter darkness fueling light. The crowd was made up of seemingly every art kid in St. Pete, and even though the floor turned into a single roiling mosh pit for the duration of the show, things stayed mostly civil. The only exceptions were one reported head butt (likely accidental), one guy throwing beer on the crowd from the back of the room (not totally cool, but in the spirit of the moment), and a lanky bro trying to start a one-man mosh up on the bar, and landing where nearly-40 writers hang out taking notes for show reviews. In the end everyone emerged glowing, slapping high fives, laughing.
Death Grips is a total unit, in tune and on time – but as much as Ride is the band’s spastic id, Zach Hill is its clattering, relentless heart. On the kit he’s like some beastly combination of John Bonham, Buddy Rich, and an Orcish war-drummer, working between and around the programmed songs with muscled polyrhythmic precision. I don’t think I saw him take so much as a sip of water for the entire hour.
This is without question one of the great live acts to see right now, and they’re in Fort Lauderdale tonight at the Culture Room. My guess is they’ll be on at 8:30 sharp, so you can just barely make it.
