BALACLAVA emerges from the crowd. Titular masks donned already, and it’s like something out of Heat. They clamber through the humid, foggy basement and arm themselves onstage. Angus Davis shoulders his bass and racks it back. Steve Salerno takes a mounted position on the drums. Arif Hama and J. Malzone flank on guitar and synth, respectively, and then it’s frontman Dylan Joice on the mic. He cracks his neck and gives the order.
NYC’s BALACLAVA is blistering, explosive, and fuelled by fearsome violence of action. Trashy guitar licks oscillate through the small space, with Salerno’s off-kilter, heatseeking drums holding the whole precarious affair together. Joice twists and coils around the mic, forcing every last syllable out until he crumples, only to reinflate and explode again.
Their grungy, stoner rock is right at home with the tastes of the evening. Odd edges and quick changes demand constant attention. The whole band sweats through their heavy winter ski masks. Davis and Hama have a sudden lucid moment in the pandemonium, whipping out some unexpected choreo on “Simon Steals a Lot” and “Love Bog” before returning to their trashing.
Despite the impending feeling of BALACLAVA, they still bring the party. It’s impossible to hear what Joice is saying between songs thanks to his transistor radio effects chain, but he seems happy to be here. And without question, the crowd is happy to have them. Like a house party in a bottle, BALACLAVA turns up, cracks it open, and burns it down. You get the sense that things could take a turn at any moment. Something wild this way comes.
