It must have been sometime in 2007 when I first experienced the true nature of why noise had brought me here. Walking away from the show down the dark road beside the elevated train tracks, giggling to myself at the rush of endorphins released by the release.
I’ve never really been one to enjoy listening to abrasive sounds at home. Mainly because the audio listening equipment I have is simply not large or powerful enough to do justice to the gorgeous bloom that is well-considered noise. Even though the mixing at Bears is average at best, utterly helpless at worst, that night the tiny older lady sitting behind the faders had little to no influence on the proceedings. This was two under-fetishised heroes of the art wielding the chaos as I’d never heard, shaping and driving it to a place where it finally transcended aggression and kept it levitating there, resonating every atom in the audience.
This was more than music as auditory appreciation; it was a full-body massage, a cleansing. No amount of dancing about architecture or quoting of precedents could take away from the sheer presence of the sound. All theory and fashion dissolved in a bath of frequencies often hidden from the world. A purity.
It seems that noise is easy to make, and it is. So many haircuts attempt it, so much congratulating is done over breaking down socio-normative barriers and so many albums are filled and obsessively collected. But rarely is it truly commanded, more often just spewed out loud, confrontational and haphazard. At its worst, also pretentious.
If you ever have the chance to see Incapacitants perform, forget all language and relish the opportunity. This may be an art all too soon lost to the smothering sediment of time and useless essays like this one.