RUSSIAN CIRCLES
Russian Circles sounds like catastrophe and relentless struggle. Like leviathans exhuming lost mountains, and blind meteorites reducing them once more to dust.
Straddling the line between postrock and postmetal, this Chicago-based trio composes apocalyptic soundscapes that stretch on like unbroken ocean and build like gathering storms. Guitarist Mike Sullivan and his childhood friend and drummer Dave Turncrantz formed the group in 2004, naming it after a skating drill they both regularly performed in ice hockey practice. In 2007, bassist Brian Cook joined the group permanently. With six albums to their name and a devout fanbase fed equally from postrock and metal, Russian Circles stormed forward into 2019 with their ambitious 7th release Blood Moon.
When I arrive at the Wonder Ballroom in northeast Portland Oregon, it’s raining hard. A thin line of hooded figures weather the conditions, waiting to have their tickets checked, swaying to the already-audible distortion seeping from the historic venue’s walls. Inside, fellow Chicago noise-makers FACS are already pouring sweat, their heads hanging under the weight of their sound. I make my way easily to the front - the crowd is still loosely packed - and make sure my earplugs are in deep.
When the lights finally go down for the main event, the audience has swollen considerably. An excited buzz has steadily permeated the damp interior, and it blooms now into a howl of anticipation. A single floor light blossoms behind Turncrantz’ kick drum, silhouetting three stalwart figures.
Two more lights come up, one behind each band member, and a scintillating web of guitar - distant with reverb and bending in and out of focus - opens the show with the new album’s first track Hunter Moon. The atmosphere is one of lament and wonder, a detached view of some impossibly vast distance. Then Turncrantz sets into a deep, rolling tom beat, the placid calm scattered before an immediate tension as Arluck begins its six-and-a-half minute odyssey. Sullivan weaves an evil sounding tapping melody, then loops it and harmonizes with himself, adding to the exigent atmosphere before he and Cook fall suddenly into a galloping whiteknuckled power chord assault. The progression is measured, sections swelling to their breaking point before falling like a warhammer and splitting the earth to reveal some new maleficent riff - the song feels like the score to one of Michael Bay’s nightmares, and you can practically smell the scorched earth in the few moments of silence between Arluck and the following devastation of Milano.
I’m letting my camera hang more often than not by the time the discordant tones of Kohokia, the fourth track off Blood Year, splinter into the crepuscular darkness. The spaces between bodies contract once again, and as the momentum of the 7-minute track billows with distortion and symbol crashes, I see more and more heads rising and falling like pendulums - more sets of eyes closing. Soon we are once again lost in the din, cresting waves like citadel walls and stampeding through foreboding woods. I can’t say what dramatic images suffused the minds of my fellow audience members, but when the scant lighting fell on us I witness expressions of joy, rage, release, and even calm. The band members seemed lost in the same trance, their eyes down or covered by waves of hair, sleeping giants at the heart of a wild tempest.
This scene should not be unfamiliar to fans of well known groups like Explosions in the Sky, Godspeed! You Black Emperor, Mogwai and This Will Destroy You.
Postrock is a fascinating category of music that favors long, drawn-out and highly emotional tracks that draw the listener in through a wall of sound - and hopefully sends them on an inward voyage of their own choosing, without any lyrics to direct their imagination. The genre is established and rightfully revered for its technically challenging musicianship as well as its highly emotive and often cinematic sound. Russian Circles embrace these traditions and stride forth with abandon, cranking the already impressive volume and leaning heavily towards the darkness woven throughout the tradition.
Throughout this cacophonous poetry, the band members never speak. No spotlight illuminates the faces of those we’ve assembled here to see. There are no moments of levity in which we are thanked for coming out, no reprieve from the dark epic being woven through string and drumhead. The story thunders on, creeping through Ghosts on High with solemn dignity and crackling feedback into Sinaia, a driving, determined march between the shattered husk of some ancient catacomb - or perhaps a final desperate crescendo in the struggle between benthic behemoths. A tall gentleman with an impressive afro sends himself bounding into the center of the crowd and a moshpit expands effortlessly as Quartered, Blood Year’s final track smashes forth with all the sustained fury of a collapsing star. Camera tucked tightly on the opposite side of my body, I let the tide of humanity draw me in and I ride the storm with the rest.
