Few people walking into an Earth show would suspect the opener would be a lecture about the harmonic series, but on Sunday, November 9 at Le Poisson Rouge, that’s what we receive. Steve Moore (aka Stebmo), a collaborator of the band’s, plays a brief Laraaji-esque song, then puts the casio synth down and takes up the mic. Though he spends his time discussing rhythms and the law of twos, most importantly, he tells us about the theory behind Earth’s music and how it has shaped his own path as a musician and a listener. That, I think, is something many of us get: Earth’s monumental tones invite you to listen with intention.
Tonight, Earth is celebrating the twentieth anniversary of their album, Hex. At the time of its release, Hex presented a new and unexpected direction for the band. They had taken nine years off after becoming the patron saints of drone-metal in the ‘90s with albums like Earth 2 that uncovered the ecstatic possibility of distorted and blown-out notes held at infinity. Those records found luminescence in harshness, beauty in mass. Hex lightened the load. They dusted off the fuzz of the guitar and instead played with blooming clarity; their chords took on a hint of the blues and found a way into soaring major. Some structured melodies even appeared, though they still unfolded at a glacial pace. The album was somewhere between the headiness of psychedelia, the barren desert of the American west (this band is inspired by Blood Meridian, after all), and the heaviness of a never-ending drone from a blaring guitar. It was the dawn of a new era for the ensemble that eventually led to their best album, The Bees Made Honey in the Lion’s Skull. Hearing it live lets us savor that language and maybe even find some inner peace.
During Moore’s lecture, I look around the room and notice the audience is carefully and quietly taking in these words. Moore sees this too and chuckles that every Earth show he’s ever played (many) has had a respectful, observant crowd. I’m not surprised, because this is the kind of group you only get into if you really like to listen, otherwise you’ll miss the overtones. As he recaps the harmonic series, he notes it also has its indefinable parts and postures that’s where the best music lies and ostensibly what Earth is trying to find. It just takes a little faith. We’re at a “worship service in honor of sound and tone,” he reminds us, and then walks offstage to smoke a cigarette. The people next to me remark that they weren’t expecting a lecture but had fun.
By the time Earth appears, I plant myself in the third row at the center of the room. Bandleader Dylan Carlson briefly announces they’re going to play Hex to a roar from the crowd. There’s some kind of technical difficulty going on, but they don’t seem too phased. It takes a couple songs for them to settle in; the first few minutes are a bit quiet and more timid than I expect. But then comes the first sweeping chord, which encapsulates the spectrum of pitch, and I’m reminded of Moore’s call to embrace the unknown in the harmonic series. Sometimes that happens when an overtone emerges; other times when a chord has a mythical quality best explained by the welling of the heart when physics can’t pinpoint the answer. In this room, I feel the truth: That music, and the act of listening to it, is something far more powerful than me.
Earth is very good at holding that power and then emitting it to us. I wouldn’t describe their music as anything other than strong and I wouldn’t describe their live show as anything other than sublime (at its heights). With just a couple of notes, they do a lot. I watch Carlson strum his guitar once with a force conjured from the deep, then let it echo and ring until it can’t anymore. I see drummer Adrienne Davies hold the pulse with a steady hand, grasping all the band’s intensity in one snare drum slam.
In his lecture, Moore says that he admires Carlson’s courage to let the sound be. I try to choose to soak the sound in for what it is, and then discover the numerous colors within. I also cry. That sweeping chord I mentioned earlier? It pierces my chest, finding some rhythm beyond my consciousness. I feel the tears come naturally, another force I can’t quite understand but let happen anyway. I’ve spent my life letting sound reach me where I cannot myself. It’s not that music is a savior per se, nor is it quite a religion, however holy the communion of a show may feel. It’s something else, something magical, the reason I need to write. But really, sometimes one chord will say it all.