In the splintered, decade-long history of the ultra-heavy Florida band Floor, very rarely have all its members lived within even a couple hours' driving distance of each other. The group's bio reads like a Biblical faith-test — poverty, substance abuse and more drummers than Spinal Tap all play fairly prominent roles. Their first full-length never saw the light of day, and various difficulties facilitated a yearlong mid '90s breakup. It's a long story, and one that includes almost everything every band fervently wishes won't happen to them.But somewhere in there, Floor managed to develop one of the most original, mesmerizing sounds in underground metal. Their deceptively simple style butts repetitive, hypnotic, down-tuned riffage against melodic vocals. It produces an incredibly expansive result that balances groovecore's bludgeoning weight with old-school alternative's cult-ish iconoclasm.
"A lot of people bring up Jane's Addiction or certain things where we're like, 'where'd that come from,' but it makes a certain kind of sense," says Floor drummer Henry Wilson. "We didn't think it reflected, but it does. Involuntarily, it comes out."
Wilson, former frontman for late Winter Park-based favorites Syrup (the cool posthardcore band, not the cheesy Southern rock outfit) and current singer/guitarist for the weighty Dove, is largely responsible for Floor's current iteration. He met Floor principals Steve Brooks (guitar/vocals) and Anthony Vialon (bass/vocals) some eight years ago, during the band's most volatile period and not long before they folded. The trio had released scads of 7-inches and garnered favorable press in metal and hardcore 'zines worldwide, but personal issues, side projects and far-flung hometowns led to Floor's demise. Wilson and Vialon became fast friends, however, and conversations about the group's wasted potential led Wilson to volunteer as their next drummer.
"They broke up in November '96, and in about September of '97 me and Anthony were talking about the band, not really reminiscing, but saying the band never got to do what it could have done," says Wilson.
The threesome rehearsed several times, but the lack of proximity remained a problem.
"We got together, and it lasted about month. Then we tried it once a year for about the next three years," he says with a laugh. "The summer of 2000 was when we finally got things rolling again."
Though Floor had been a known entity in it's independent circles for the better part of the '90s, Wilson considers that summer the beginning of something new rather than a continuation. The band would convene in Winter Park on weekends (Brooks still lives in Miami, Vialon in Mount Dora), jamming easily eight hours at a stretch and honing a style that eschewed Floor's earlier screamy, rather anonymous sound in favor of something truly original. Songs had always come quickly and organically for them, and Gainesville label No Idea (Hot Water Music, Less Than Jake) had for years assured the band that whenever they finally came up with something new, the imprint would release it.
"(There was) lots of cramming," Wilson remembers. "When we were working on the album, we would work on vocal melodies from 10 p.m. to 5 a.m. every weekend for a month straight."
The resultant self-titled CD is a slow-motion tidal wave of sound that ably juxtaposes haunting melody and bruising, anthemic low-end groove. Ever pine for that heavy album that sounds like nothing else, yet still more than fulfills in both the "crushing" and "listenable" categories? This is the one, a simultaneously raw and artful effort. Floor also showcases a rather inimitable element of the band's process that's by now familiar to fans of their live show — the "bomb string." Floor's guitarists employ a bizarre tuning wherein the lowest string is tuned down until it's basically fluttering loose on the fretboard; at dramatic points during a song, the bomb string is struck, producing a buzzing, cacophonous explosion.
When asked if he's worried that such a trick might be perceived as gimmicky, Wilson is ambivalent.
"If so, the bomb string is definitely our gimmick," he laughs. "But we don't overuse it, we don't build songs around it. We just use it when songs can't go any farther."
The record's cohesive, thematic feel is also deliberate. While a relatively prolific outfit, the members of Floor approached the full-length cautiously and constructively, perceiving the finished product as a whole rather than a collection of tracks.
"We actually write stuff based on if we're gonna put it on and listen to it as one solid experience," Wilson says. "There was lots of stuff that was recorded for the record that didn't make it, just because it didn't flow."
Since Floor's release, they've been on and off of the road, playing with bands ranging from punk-pop to death metal, consistently pleasing themselves and confounding those music fans whose tastes are stringently defined by genre. The trio has also recently become a quartet, with the addition of Gainesville guitarist Drew DeMaio (late of Argentina, and still in Strikeforce Diablo). In keeping with the band's tradition of volatile methodology, even though DeMaio's a member, no one can say yet where the change will lead.
"I couldn't tell ya. It's too early to tell, and you can print that," Wilson laughs. "We've jammed and it felt pretty good, but we played a show the other night and it was pretty rough. But we were trying some new equipment out, something we probably should've done at practice."
Even so, Floor will undoubtedly continue to do what feels right to its collective gut, rather than adhering to some assumed rulebook for how a band should operate. It's served them quite well in forging a compelling new sound, and will hopefully continue to keep things interesting for some time to come.
"For the most part," says Wilson, "if it gets us off, we know it right off the bat."
Music critic Scott Harrell can be reached at 813-248-8888, ext. 109, or by e-mail at scott.harrell@weeklyplanet.com.
This article appears in Nov 20-26, 2002.
