Machines of Loving Grace
at Local 186
by Scott Hefflon
photo by Chris Johnson
The smoke pours across the stage. The floor lights set at the edge of the stage light the band from beneath throwing surreal shadows on the ceiling and walls. Dark, shadowed faces flicker with the strobe. The techno over-driven vox of “Burn Like Brilliant Trash” blast out as an introduction for Machines of Loving Grace. With snarling heavy metal guitars, a live drummer, and a trigger percussionist and sample spewer, Machines filled the stage and every molecule of air was crammed with their intense tech/goth/guitar driven mayhem.. Usually samples, and FX are an added dimension to a bands sound. Machines not only incorporates industrial hell into the songs, they pump the mighty decibel level and bombard you with rapid fire synth rage. Louder, heavier and more undeniably were the FX used than any band I’ve experienced live. Taking cyber technology from the studio to the stage transformed this formerly CD experience into an amazingly powerful live event.
“Burn, Baby, Burn…” whispered over the slamming drums, sending ice shivers along the spine and ice picks drumming into your skull. The vox were doubled by a voice modulator during the chorus. The effect was a duet of cyber angles and roaring rock demons performing in some hyperspace post-disco inferno. Singer Scott Benzel dove upon the seething masses and surfed the human sea – never missing a rage-filled note. His repeated howl reverberated as he rode the tide of outstretched arms. The blasting intro to ‘Lilith/Eve” skipped and slurped with the sonic equivalence of hitting a dump truck head on. But when the lyrics began, the sound crashed. Auditory blackout.
After a brief serenade of piano bar jazz and pacing, they began again. Again the blackout. During the stand-by, Scott quipped, “Anybody know any good jokes? Beside this one?” The band entertained us with an impromptu hardcore hoedown as we talked quietly amongst ourselves and ordered many drinks to pass the time. Those without faith bailed, but this dedicated writer stuck around, running up the bar tab.
The intro began again and was the eve of the ensuing decadent onslaught, the chilling whispers upscaled to distorted screams, the waves of synths crashed unrelentlingly, the chugging guitar drove as unstoppably as a midnight express, and the combination contained power enough to be lethal to any sound system. The search light of the suicide machine spun as more smoke poured across the stage.
“Limiter” ground slow and heavy and the crowd slammed their approval. While many people criticize preprogrammed bands, there was so much improv ranting going on that if any of it was sequenced, it was sequenced freely enough to allow for spontaneous live antics. They played the song from The Crow that was intense and plodding but lacked that slamdancable drive. They followed with “Perfect Tan (Bikini Atoll)” which, of course, threw the crowd into a slam happy frenzy. they launched right into “Acceleration,” the closest they come to speedcore, littered with solos, interludes of cyberchurch organs, and more hyperscreams and howls than you can shake a stick at. Even a really big one.
Favorites “Rites of Shiva” and “Butterfly Wings’ triggered chaos on the floor as the slamming spread to the far corners of the room. Swimming through layers of synths and techno tribal bashing and ending with the encore of “Terminal City.’ The percussionist cracked a stick and threw them into the audience, “You are waking from a very long dream, your eyes are focused on the fan on the ceiling. You realize you are part of the machine. Just a part of the machine.” Drop the mic. Feedback builds to a scream. Fade to black.
