People die all the time, but that doesn’t mean I’m used to it. In fact, save boyhood chum Sean Harkness’ death after a drunken-driving accident, I have very little firsthand experience with death. My grandpa’s been cursed with cancer three times and waited it out like a case of the runs; most of the other members of my family are either religious (which means very few bad habits, at least on the surface), Built to Last like eternal Jawbreakers or already dead – and thus I never knew them and thus never mourned them and thus-thus-thus and so on and so forth.
My dearth of death has perhaps made me a little squeamish when my favorite bands collectively choke on their own vomit and keel over in a pile of their own filth, a.k.a. pass away. When Pantera coughed up their last lung-buttered breath, I was inconsolable for months; when Soundgarden broke up, I locked myself in my room for days, living on a curiously tasty combination of smooshed carpet raisins and powdered hot-chocolate mix w/ inflatable marshmallows. Shit’s serious, yo!
After such strange behavioral codas, I expected Arab On Radar’s obituary to cause sharp limb-jerks, flashbacks, and any number of physical ailments, but it didn’t. This time the grieving period has been even worse because I’ve internalized it, prolonging the pain. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I too have been slowly perishing inside, waiting for a band to pick up the slack. I’m realizing more and more with each passing week that my expectations are unrealistic.
Or are they? I believe in miracles, now that Athletic Automation have come along (you sexy thangs!). They provide me with the elements I took for granted when Arab On Radar were around: guitar riffs that feel as though they might shear through your face like rusty sawblades, tom-heavy drumming that stays in the pocket and endless forays into the unknown. They also provide me with something only Arab On Radar can lend: An ex-member of Arab On Radar, guitarist Steve Mattos. What more could a patently reactionary indie listener ask for? Bass? Vocals? Meh, who needs ’em when you’ve got a guitar player/drummer combo that sounds like a battalion on its own?
A Journey Through Roman’s Empire is just that: a journey. You’ll get tired (of all the screeching), you’ll get thirsty (for something ‘pop’-ier), and you’ll want to rest (your ears, HIYO!), but in the end you’ll know it was worth it to scale Shriek Mountain, because – if you’re not already there – you’ll be open to a whole new paradigm, where bad is good and worse is great. Hell, you might even be able to stomach harsh noise without getting your brain pumped (anything’s possible). Two-man-band projects are common of late, but Athletic Automation are different. They never sound like they’re filling space, and when their paths intersect they don’t combine forces at all; they crash into one another with maniacal force. All the most abrasive traits of fellow noise-rock gnashers are represented to the extreme, and in the process, most of AA’s competition melts away like my resistance when a new rock star fronts his own reality series.
I didn’t write the book on death, but I’m starting to realize one of the most incredible miracles of The End: new life. As I mentioned in a recent These Are Powers review, many of the bigger branches on the indie-rock tree have began to splinter, in some cases resulting in two or even three bands worth watching (provided no one busts their ego nut and goes solo; sorry V. Bergstrom). Nothing will bring back Arab On Radar, but with so many acts celebrating their memory – many of them with the same principles participating – AOR have become more powerful than we could possibly have imagined before their break-up, circa Botch or Sunny Day Real Estate (or, you know, Obi-Wan).
It’s true: The galaxy tends to unfold as it should.
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