I have no grasp of the concept of musical theory. I know that octaves and notes and progressions and measures exist, but exactly how to concoct an amalgamation of elements that result in something considered “good music” escapes me. I don’t even know what constitutes “good” musicianship. I like what I like; I react to the “good” shit, but in this context good becomes subjective, does it not (hence the quotation marks)?

Do the boys behind Ear Venom (opening act at last night’s Wall of Sound showcase at the Rendezvous) have a mastery of the theory behind music? Who knows. I for one sure don’t. In fact- I’m obviously not an expert on the subject- I don’t know that the sounds they produce would even qualify as “music.” There’s no melody (at least, nothing you could “hum along to,” the dude next to me so astutely pointed out); not really any sort of discernable form. But who cares, ‘cause man is that shit good.

Imagine, if you will: two tall, slender young men, both with foppish hairdos and faded skinny jeans, standing behind ironing boards upon which are perched dinged-up suitcases housing what one can only assume are electrical configurations that would frazzle the mind of a layman. The performance? Just noise- moanings into what looked like handmade CB radios; a drumstick stuck between the strings and neck of a guitar being pounded upon; “instruments” being blown on, banged on the legs of the ironing boards, and smacked on surfaces; buzzing noises galore… It sounds horrible, I know, but I was enthralled. At one point, I paused to take stock of the sensory overload and noticed my heart rate and breathing were both accelerated, and the hairs on my neck were bristling. How’s that for a visceral reaction?

Headliner Son of Rose had a similar effect, though a markedly different performance. His audio was directly synced into visuals projected on a screen onstage- it seemed like the projection was the focal point and the music secondary, so much so that I can’t even tell you what the music sounded like, but I can try to explain the visuals. The display can only be described as fertile- uterine shapes morphing into embryonic specters, undulating to the music in some sort of primordial pas de deux, sometimes at frequencies so intense it looked like the screen was about to shake off the wall, á la certain scenes from Chris Cunningham’s Rubber Johnny. And I wasn’t even high.