Kyuss Lives! @ Big Top, Sydney(07/05/11)

Tue 10th May, 2011 in Gig Reviews

Reunion gigs always contain an element of tension. To reunite is to basically call on only one of three outcomes: complete success, utter failure or worse: doomed to irrelevancy. Kyuss are unique in that their legend is almost exclusively powered by their fan base. You’ll struggle to find actual critical literature on them beyond the almost universal acknowledgment of their influence. They left a crater in the landscape after they left that has never been entirely filled, and so with the news that they were touring again hit the airwaves, essentially rolling back the musical monolith to its rightful place, from far and away shaggy, crusty heads slumbering for the last 15 years rose in unison, aware that something special was about to happen – for better or for worse.

Fans have been lamenting the loss of Kyuss since the minute they broke up. Their desperate pleas have been answered to varying degrees of success; from admirably decent cover bands, impromptu on-stage jams at the various gigs of their numerous alumni, to a pretty solid best-of record and a huge rise in popularity in anything sounding remotely like them. Nebula, Fu Manchu and modern interpretations on the genre like The Sword and Comets on Fire – the list is long. Kyuss’ shadow is long and broad. It was obvious the only thing left to satiate the insatiable was to actually get back together.

Supporting their overlords was long absent local legends Tumbleweed. They’ve been a shaggy fixture on the pub gig circuit for years, but recent sightings are largely unsubstantiated tales following late nights trawling seedy live bars, often photographed from great distances with underexposed film and conspicuously rubbish focus. Kyuss found them, dusted them off and shot them out of a canon at a crowd that was a little surprised at the veracity and sheer volume of the hairy quintet. To impress a crowd of Kyuss followers based on how loud you are is no mean feat. Well played Tumbleweed.

The mix clearly had some problems and whilst it did leave Richie Lewis flailing wildly but silently for half a song and the front of house needed to be reset or something, it was far from a set killer for our plucky, feral minstrels. It gave the desk an opportunity to figure out the space a bit better. Levels were corrected and slightly pulled in the guitars to a more acceptable volume. Apparently there is such a thing as too loud.

The band itself was great and for my money they really haven’t sounded better as a unit. The rhythm section really flexed their muscles, Steve O’Brien bashing away proudly, and Lenny Curley and Paul Hausmeister’s guitars had bombast and vigour, swirling around the huge venue. Richie’s voice was a bit lost in the storm but his sinewy, spastic presence was enough of a focal point to draw everything together.

And then, there was Kyuss.

The issue everyone was aware of but reluctant to talk about was sorted out pretty bloody early. Josh Homme presented an immediate problem to the tour, stating in no uncertain terms he refused to “rub his dick” on a proud memory by resurrecting a long dead idea. Whether this was based on principle or vanity is a moot point. For the guy primarily responsible for their sound to ungraciously decline was a tough decision to circumnavigate.

That they did though, by finding a genuinely exciting guitarist named Bruno Fevery, hailing from Belgium. More than once punters were heard spitting “Who the fuck is Josh Homme??” as they gave themselves over to a worthy new talent. Sure, Homme has the robotic precision, technical sophistication and sonic palette capable of actually creating the crushing melodies and solos that he did, but Fevery brought a much more organic approach, and attacked the material without hesitation or pretence. It wasn’t an exercise in replication; it was an energized, aggressive yet oddly graceful interpretation of well known songs and licks.

There was a surprising amount of depth to the sound. From the moment the first thundering riff of Gardenia lurched to life there were different focal points to each song. Nick Oliveri’s Bass rumbled along like an earth mover in high gear, but it never blanketed Fevery’s guitar work. The same can be said for El Rodeo; Oliveri’s looping gypsy progression during the opening never drowning out the whirring Spanish blues lick from Fevery. During monstrous crushing walls of sound like Conan Troutman and the absolutely blistering closing number 100 Degrees both guitars worked together to create pounding and intoxicating torrents of blues and metal and bass.

John Garcia’s voice is still great, holding good melody and whirring like an engine pushing too far. The slick Mexican henchman look he was sporting at the beginning was a little distracting, and when he let himself go for the encores, letting his hair out and parading in his Quicksilver singlet the wave of grateful recognition in the crowd was palpable. Other than a bit of weight, standing before us was exactly the same guy that’s been spitting fire out of our speakers for the last 15 years. He was genuinely grateful to be back I think.

Brant Bjork was beamed down from whatever astral plane he’s been on to gleefully bash away familiar old rhythms and to provide the fiery guts the whole outfit runs on. His weapons were expanding walls of crash cymbals, loose explosive snares and fuzzy cavernous kicks. His patterns are powerful and simplistic but there’s an undeniable groove to them as well that differentiates them from their contemporaries and places them in a category of their own. Once again, the mix was good enough to let the drums shine through without crushing the instruments around him.

The setlist was superb. It was well thought out and sequenced nicely, providing contrast when needed and capitalizing on any momentum it built up and letting us enjoy the subsequent release. One-two punches like Asteroid and Super Scoopa were amazing.

This is how you put on a reunion gig. Rather than retreading tired material and lamely fawning to commercial demand they came out of hibernation and threw down a formidable challenge to the question of relevance. They were keen, vital, and judging from Bjork’s grin, happy to be there. Their music has lost none of its powerful, stoned, vaguely sexual intensity and they really do have a unique sound, meaning they’re actually adding something to the landscape. The mighty Kyuss do indeed live, and they crushed us under their ten-ton velvet boots.