THE Night I
SAVED
STEVE
ALBIni's
LIFE
Yeah, I did. It was right there on the stage
of the I-Beam in San Francisco. Big Black
was fully involved in a noisy, brain-death in-
ducing set. Singer Steve Albini, while whip-
pin' his head around like some kinda PCP-
engorged manimal, flung his glasses into
my camera lens. Someone grabbed to
destroy; I grabbed to save. Right there, on
that stage (or was it during the prepubes-
cent stage?) I saved Steve Albini's life. If he
hadn't gotten his specs back, he probably
would have had to leave-he was squintin'
pretty hard-there would have been a riot,
the I-Beam would have been reduced to
rubble and Big Black, namely Albini, would
have had another "bad" rumor about him..
MUSTARD GAS
The main thing you should note is that
Big Black is blistering on record. That's a
given my spaghetti-shredded bass woofer
cone will attest. Live, well, they're something
to be reckoned with. It's like havin' a cheroot
dropped into your pants at full light. It makes
you want to move! It's pure and natural and
like the fist of a 250-pound, well-conditioned
heavyweight as it meets it's mark on your
mug.
Unfortunately, for the West Coast, Big
Black has only played once out here. Once
is not enough, twice is not enough. Hell, I
want it every night for dinner.
SWITCHING TO PUS MODE
84
Big Black is: Thousands of pounds of
Story and photos by Bill Christman
hammering, twisting, gut-shreiking, disrup-
tive maniac guitar with even more inten-
sified, nerve-damaging, pulsing cavalcades
of thunderstorm bass fretboard growls,
rounded off with never ending Third Reich
infested, unstoppable, sadistic, maniac
mechanical drum machine emanations top-
ped off with brain searing, over-the-top, mor-
bid, painful and agonizing vocal screams
from the farthest, most depraved depths of
hellfire and brimstone.
PHEW!
Glad I got that off my chest.
THE EXTENDED MIX SHOW REVIEW
No description will even come close to
describing the Big Black live experience.
That's 'cause it is so pure and powerful.
Looking in your adjective dictionary won't
help...
From the time they hit the stage, which
had a minimal amount of musician's
wares-no roadies for these guys, just
guitar cases and a backpack fulla cords 'n
shit-it was mayhem in music form. Loud,
unrelenting and piercing, the tortured per-
formance of Big Black tore wide holes in
everyone's perception of what real music
should be. Reality-most people can't face
it, let alone enjoy it. To describe the show
is like trying to tell your best pal what it feels
like to scream down the freeway at 150 mph
in torrential rain and have the back wheels
hydroplane on a slick bit o' grease 'n water.
Your stomach ends up on the dashboard for
a sec, you see your mom with the belt about
to hit you upside the head and such...The
rumor this night was that Big Black was
about to disband. Nothing serious like ego,
something about, like, going back to school
was the reason. So Big Black played in a
manner obviously designed to set some
pants on fire, then came back for more.
Three times to be exact. Three strikes and
your off the stage, and they bat 1.000. Beats
the hell outta watching Ted Williams hit
homers to goobers in the stands.
WHY THERE'S NO INTERVIEW-WHAT'S
THE DEAL?
It was supposed to be a real live talkie.
You know, "THRASHER: How was the
European tour?" "BIG BLACK: Oh, it went
real well." Blah, blah, blah. It's just as well
as it gets so run-of-the-mill. Okay, Steve
Albini is from Montana. A small town in Mon-
tana. He lives, grows, moves to Chicago,
goes to school, forms Big Black and makes
a record for $1,200. Santiago Durango (he
already lives in Chicago) forms Naked
Raygun (the other superb band from this
particular burg), quits, plays around, ends
up in Big Black. Dave Riley, in various bands.
including Savage Beliefs, also joins and
takes up bass duties. Roland, born in a fac-
tory under white lights, grows up on a
dealer's shelf and is put up for adoption. Big
Black says "here puddin" and Roland has
a new home. That's it. It doesn't matter who
**
passed or came and went in the meanwhile.
Albums (or some Eps, if you prefer...) are:
Lungs, Bulldozer, Racer X, Atomizer, The
Hammer Party. The liner notes on Racer X
describe the music nowadays, "The next
one will make you shit yourself."
IF THERE'S NO DEAL, WHY NO DEAL?
The visions that Big Black conjures are
stark, to-the-point and uncompromising.
Your basic great song always tells a story.
Each of B.B.'s tells one, pretty or bleak. Child
rape, Speed Racer's brother, boredom in
small towns, alienation in all forms-it's all
part of history, reality. I don't want to hear
about Utopian vision-let me hear about life
no matter how horrible or ugly. Gimme
something that will whip through me and
make me experience pain, joy, suffering and
fear, just as long as it's real and not some
figment of an imagination.
WHEN THIS IS OVER, I'LL LET SLEEP
OPEN THE DOOR...
Yeah, as in heavy-duty snooze. The kind
that gives you a headache 'cause you've
had too much. Speaking of headaches,
that's the next step. Headache, the next and
possibly last Big Black product, will heat the
shelves in Yourtown, U.S.A. Judging from
the four-song live preview, "Headache" will
be a mother. My guess is that you will shit
yourself, or die trying.
Steve Albini sweats out a rare West Coast
appearance.
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