No One Was Decapitated: The Drin, The Sheaves, Nick Maurer & The Grocers – Feel It Records, Cincinnati, OH, July 16, 2024
Today’s show report will come full circle on a singular ceiling fan. More on that in a moment. Last Tuesday, I went to my first Feel It Records in-shop show since the punk and rock n’ roll label established its own brick-and-mortar location in the old stomping grounds of Torn Light Records. Noisy, garage psych enigmas The Drin released their fourth album, Elude the Torch on Feel It on June 28, and celebrated with a release show on July 16 supported by Phoenix’s The Sheaves, and Cincinnati’s own Nick Maurer & The Grocers. The entire evening was entropy in action, ultimate devolving into chaos. It was fantastic.
After poking around the shop when I got there (grabbed a Coil LP and a Selena CD), I made my way over to the stage arera of the shop, hearing Nick Maurer starting to soundcheck. As I stood there, I saw Dakota Carlyle (The Drin) pick up a chair to carry over to the area, bludgeoning the nearest ceiling fan in the process. The fan popped out of its socket several inches, still hanging on, but wobbling more than spinning compared to its peers. It felt like the brand-newness of the shop was getting its first battle scar.
Not long after, I was approached by an older woman who asked me if I’d like a seat, since I was hanging onto records. I struck up a conversation with her and learned she was Nick Maurer’s grandmother. She regaled me with tales of her family history, a family that’s Ohio through and through. I love when family members come to their loved ones’ gigs, and getting to meet them always makes me feel more connected to who the musicians are and how they’ve been supported to this point in their lives.
Some more chatting and catching up with old friends ensued before Nick Maurer & The Grocers kicked off the evening, and when I say kicked, I mean crashed through the door and obliterated it to pieces. Maurer, his right foot perpetually planted on an upside-down trash can to support his acoustic guitar, began with a serenade of his “Fucked Up Blues.” The tune was then derailed by a literal parade of noisemakers, The Grocers emerging from behind a white sheet on the stage playing homemade horns, rattles, and other percussive instruments that have no name (as far as I know). The Grocers marched around the store, weaving in and out of people and bins, the noise heightening in intensity with each passing moment. A Grocer hopped behind a singular floor tom, banging ferociously as Maurer leapt to the floor, striking a bicycle wheel hooked up to an amp. The wheel emitted a roar as it spun and vibrated. Meanwhile, a snare drum perched on a cardboard box collapsed, rattling as it tumbled to the floor. Every moment felt precarious, and no one seemed to mind.
Certain favorites of Maurer’s songbook elicited rapturous responses from the crowd, with many singing along, such as “Old Mattress in a Parking Lot” and “Jesus Christ Ain’t Got Nothing on Jesús.” The Grocers also held one of their infamous Jump Rope Competitions, with the winner tallying up a whopping sixty-nine jumps. Everything concluded with the entire crowd receiving their own noisemakers, providing counterpoint and punctuations at will to Maurer’s final songs. I would say the whole affair felt Dada at times, but there was a certain whimsy and joy that permeated the performance which feels like it transcended that kind of box. It wasn’t simply about nonsense or absurdity, it was completely fun. Maurer’s cheeky acoustic tunes blended perfectly with the bonkers joy of The Grocers, and the audience was just as bonkers as well.
The Sheaves took to the stage next, a kind of garage-y post-punk group based out of Phoenix, Arizona. There were a handful of things I noticed first: their cowboy hats, the synth player’s Faust shirt, and how few pedals the guitarists used. I’m in a phase right now where I really love when guitarists barely use any pedals, I feel like it lets their playing and songwriting come through. One of the Sheaves guitarists had a Tube Screamer and I think a tuning pedal hooked up, and that was it. Straight to the point, and it still cooked. The Sheaves had this unique sound to their songs through these often woozy, somewhat atonal guitar lines. The guitar parts would weave in and out of one another at times, reminding me a little of Hot Rock-era Sleater-Kinney, but more dissonant. There were also moments where things felt a bit motorik, like early, more guitar-based Stereolab. It was probably a mixture of the solid, insistent drums and the synths that had me feeling that way. The Sheaves were cool, no frills, ripped through a maybe fifteen-minute set, and were on their way. Like a flash of riffs, blink and you’ll miss ‘em, stare and you’re blinded.
For The Drin, I have to mainly go off of my hazy, ten-PM memory, because during their set, I felt like I couldn’t pull my phone out to take notes at any second, or I’d miss something spectacular. I hung out on the side right in front of Eric Dietrich on the sax, often parting the sea for him to make the rounds throughout the crowd. He must have been moving based on intuition, his eyes covered by spiral-painted goggles. The Drin set started with what sounded like Link Wray’s “Rumble,” but more psyched-out, distorted, accompanied by a soaring sax solo. Of all things, “Rumble” makes me think of that scene in the Sopranos pilot, the mobsters holding court outside of Satriale’s with their cigarettes and espresso. In that moment, The Drin was holding court with us, the crowd, setting the stage for swagger and hypnosis.
What followed this introduction was a wash of drone, feedback, and noise, on top of which spun a whirlwind of deadpan vocals, tight bass lines, drums and percussion that wouldn’t quit. Dylan McCartney meandered around the stage as if his path would be revealed throughout, his wanderings bringing him to the floor, by the drums, on top of an amp. At times his words floated through the air like wisps of banality, at others they were enunciated with grave clarity. With each moment, I felt as if I was descending further into an incapacitated trance, all the while The Drin ramping up intensity with each song, losing control as entropy took hold. Sweat dripped from foreheads, McCartney and Dietrich wrestled on the floor, Cole Gilfilen knocked over the cymbals before they were even done playing.
At some point in this haze, McCartney reached up, eyes set to the injured ceiling fan from the start of the night. With a small leap, he jabbed his hand up into its limping blades. The object was momentarily jarred, rocking back and forth at the intrusion. I laughed and quickly looked to McCartney, who had retreated back towards the drums. I looked to his hand, searched for blood, even though I knew the notion was ridiculous. The Drin had heightened my senses beyond reason, everything seemed dire. There was nothing on his hand. No blood, the fan continued its work in its limited state. My eyes darted to the crowd underneath it, and no one was decapitated. In the moment it feels like more, but it’s just a rock show on a Tuesday night, remember.
The entire enterprise crumbled into a free noise jam freakout by the end, each member deciding one-by-one when their time was up, leaving the stage. As the sound finally dissipated, a crowd member shouted “One more song!” McCartney smirked and shook his head emphatically. “There’s no way,” he replied.
– Hannah Blanchette
All photos by Zachary S. Pennington
July 28, 2024 | Blog