Boris @ The Orange Peel, 9.8.06

Pics and report from Fratness, who moonlights as Treasurer, Vice President, President and Chief Executive Officer of the South Carolina chapter of Metro Distortion:

"In an attempt to blow my mongrel mind, I attack the up and down pattern of North Carolina’s version of the Appalachian Mountains. I would lie, as writers do, and tell you that I traversed this stretch of interstate 26 at 100 mph, but I can’t. As a journalist, or self-proclaimed internet journalist, I should uphold the truth. The truth is I couldn’t handle this road at 100 mph if I had a Lamborghini. So with 7 percent grade changing into 20 percent grade and back to 3 percent grade the nauseous up and down elevation change is only further aggravated by a consistent movement of the brake pedal and gas pedal to the floor. I do all this while my brain operates well over 100 mph, yet cognizant that if I don’t keep my shit together I might become a pink stain somewhere past the South Carolina border.

"It is hard not to be excited. It is hard to stay focused on the road. I recently developed a heated love affair with metal phenomena Boris. This love affair is about to come to its pornographic conception if I make it to Asheville’s Orange Peel without flipping my truck into the oblivion of an Appalachian gorge. As my stereo alternates between Pink, Absolutego and Amplifier Worship I ask the big questions. Why am I so captured by what most might call static? I gather that it’s the little details that interest me. But is this overload of feedback something that I am reading too deeply into? Is there art in it? Is this a parallel to the idiot savant randomness in a Jackson Pollock painting that appears to be oil based chaos? Waking up out of this useless line of thinking I am warned of the dangers along this road by the yellow and black image of a hurdling deer. Wake up! Stay focused.

"I pull into a parking garage at 8:30, silently congratulating myself on a good piece of driving. I reach down for my best shirt crumpled in between, behind or under the passenger seat. I wipe off what appears to be taco bell grated cheese from a ball cap. I find two matching sneakers and put them on my feet. I immediately feel the energy of an artistic town. Looking across the street as I pull on my shirt I see a metallic looking mime with a violin. Where have I seen this woman before? I narrow it down to Southeast Asia or New York City, but I am certain I have seen this person before. This town oozes art. The parking garage ticket giver guy tells me I’m 2 blocks from the Orange Peel which means that I’m 6. I hear music spilling out of bars and clubs and the street corners. A clown on the street plays a miniature ukelele for a young girl while her parents observe cautiously. The guy on the park bench tunes his soon-to-be pawned acoustic guitar next to an empty open guitar case. Blues music wafts over our heads as I make my way down Biltmore Ave.

"The Orange Peel looks exactly as I saw it in my mind’s eye. All brick with a red neon glow, worn but useful. Earlier in the day their website informed me that Bob Dylan has played here so I know the rustic façade isn’t really a façade. This place has paid its dues. I pick up my will call ticket, get the rubber stamp that will undoubtedly wash off after frequent trips to the restroom, and get excited for Boris to shake the foundation of this place.

"So $3.50 Yuengling equals $5.00 Yuengling with tip, but I have a grip full of blood money and I don’t mind. I immediately make my way to the bar, but respect the size of the floor in relation to the size of the stage. A quick glance at the merch stand and I know I will see them again at closeout. I have to know what Wata’s (guitarist) rig entails. I salivate toward her Orange AD140HTC and notice that she has what appears to be an Orange 30 watt rockerverb running as well. I get a look at a slew of stompboxes, adjust the excitement in my jeans and presume she runs the 30 watt Orange for a clean tone completely separate from the 140 watt HTC. After taking mental notes I’m back to the bar for another round. The opening bands are good, but not good enough for me to remember the names. This is not their fault, rather my own. Due to my misshapen priority I must be back at the bar every 7-10 minutes for another beer. This lessens the effect of what might otherwise have been good sets for both bands. It’s encouraging to see Atsuo (drummer) and Takeshi (vocals, bass, guitar) tapping their feet periodically to the sound as they mingle with the crowd. I feel their irritation at the people that distract them for handshakes and small talk. Deep down I really just want to see Wata, the guitar-laden vixen, make her way through the crowd; however, I am left with only hope. I picture her backstage doing handstand push-ups and having some roadie punch her in the stomach several times.

"Between sets I find the hunger in my stomach reaching biblical proportions. Luckily, I only have to walk 23 paces to get to Mama Citas Mexican restaurant. Walking in the door I note the pseudo-mexican quasi-hipster décor. Proper and clean. I order a chipotle chicken burrito, hold the fountain drink, knowing that I need to feed the hunger, but not kill the buzz. I hope that the random hotel I will be in later tonight has good plumbing. As the guy behind the counter concocts a burrito bigger than a small child’s head I realize that the rest of the weekend could be very unpleasant. I manage to eat it all, knowing that if I wasn’t drunk this task would be impossible. This is by far the largest burrito I have ever seen in my life, it must weigh 5 pounds. I curse myself for not getting a drink to ice off this fury of chipotle chicken spice...and I’m out the door.

"Approximately 3.14 seconds before Wata strikes the first menacing chord from her Les Paul I find a moment of premature enlightenment. It is the calm before the storm. It is the realization that you find an unexplainable equilibrium inside loving something that you can’t fully understand, but that you know is beautiful. In another dimension Jackson Pollock buys me a shot of Jagermeister. I drink to that. Over the next hour and a half I am completely inside a sound that is bigger than the entire state of North Carolina. Periodically, I hear wails from Atsuo’s headset microphone. Young college types push the frustrations out of one another as they ricochet along the dance floor. I sing along to Japanese words that I’ve never learned and realize I am not the only one ridiculously butchering the lyrics. But none of it matters. Everyone here tonight pushes their earplugs in a little tighter and loses themselves a bit more after each song. I fall in love when Wata sings a song to the back wall of the club. At points she trades lead parts with Takeshi. At other points I am simply paralyzed watching Takeshi play bass lines that span the entire real estate of his medieval looking double neck fretboard. The level of talent of each musician is so vast, but it appears so effortless. As Atsuo slams large blue mallets into a suspended gong behind his drum kit, I recollect that the only other band I know of that has, and effectively uses, a gong is Tool. Note to self: any hard rock band worth a damn should invest in and become proficient with a gong.

"When Boris exits the stage, I along with a formidable legion of fans, begin to stomp the wooden floorboards loose while chanting 'BORIS!' in defiance. Boris grants us two more vicious songs and a little smile from Wata as they exit for good. It was the only time the expression on her face changed from cold porcelain agnosticism. Up until now I honestly thought she was the most intense human being on Earth. She still might be. She is in the perfect band for it."

An additional note from Fratulence: "i looked again at the photo that i took of wata that came out and i realized that the amp that i thought was a 30 watt rockerverb wasnt actually a 30 watt rockerverb. after about an hour of searching through every site i could find i figured out that its an old model called a OR120....."

Remaining Boris Dates:
2006.9.11 (TONIGHT!) North Six (Brooklyn, NY)
2006.9.12 (Tuesday) Knitting Factory (New York, NY)
2006.9.13 (Wednesday) Middle East (Boston, MA)

[The Orange Peel | Boris]