As we descend the steps of the no-doubt haunted basement of Église St-Édouard, we’re greeted by a veritable mob of underage concertgoers, a Lynchian, curtain-filled stage fit for a Christmas pageant, and a noisy wash of wiped-out guitars and ragged vocal delivery that will probably hurt in the morning. Fishnets and camo as far as the eye can see. I must be at the Truck Violence album release show.
Despite the name implying an age-old legacy, EVERGREEN, the evening’s opener, is a young band, fresh-faced, energetic, and mad as hell. Deploying a full suite of grungy, noisy, punkish entropy, they offer everything you could want from an opener: Sheer stamina and just enough coaxing to get the pit riled up. Playing at (or beyond) full steam to the rapidly filling room, we get dirty guitar lines, drum fills that see pieces of the kit literally flying off, and again, that strained, agonizing vocal display.
EVERGREEN has all the hallmarks of a promising new band—an ineluctable rage that stops just short of smashing guitars (though it wouldn’t have been a surprise), thrashing, exhausting movement, and a slightly overzealous attachment to their influences—in this case, an overindulgent allegiance to Nirvana. With some more time to refine, mature, and find their own sound, EVERGREEN will have the scene at their fingertips.
Next on the bill is distraction4ever, a rapidly rising synth-punk duo that borrows sounds from acts like Molchat Doma, the GothBoiClique cinematic universe, LUCY (Cooper B. Handy), and even local sensation Alix Fernz—though it would be wrong to call their sound derivative. Frenetic and frantic, distraction4ever puts on quite the show. With stunning analog synths that seem to only ever climb higher, climactic guitar, distorted vocals, and punchy, irresistible drum machines, the pair bounce across the stage. There’s something tongue-in-cheek about them, some kind of irony to this post-post-post-punk act that thankfully comes off as exciting and enticing rather than indulgent. But whether you’re in on it or not, distraction4ever creates a stunning soundscape of glitter and grime, like a firework display detonating over some drab Soviet bloc.
And lastly, we of course had the men of the hour: Truck Violence themselves. Screamer and poet-in-chief Karsyn Henderson opens the night with a few words read from his notebook, spitting out vague but poignant words attacking those who abuse their positions within artistic communities. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard him allude to bad behaviour in Montreal’s various music scenes, and at this point, I’m dying to hear Henderson just name and shame some bands instead of cryptically gesturing to them for those who already know—but I suppose it’s not his style.
What we get instead is an utterly eruptive performance from the latest iteration of Truck Violence. Here is the band’s debut LP, Violence, in its near entirety (with the noted exception of the album’s two somber banjo-driven tracks—no time for that sad shit). Every anguished wail flies from Henderson like freshly-exorcised hellspawn, cutting into us, coating us in Truck Violence’s signature blend of existential dread and barely healed wounds. Paul Lecours’ harsh guitar lines fire out like a chain whip across the back, a flagellation that only comes once we’ve been brought to our knees by the throaty, animalistic bass of Chris Clegg. The band’s newest member, Gaël Parnas-Zver, puts on a spirited performance on drums, particularly on one new song that he presumably got to write his own part for, though he still seems to be finding his stride in this sludgy sonic mixture.
We go on like this all night. Eventually, the siren song of Truck Violence draws me towards the front, where I’m blasted by shirtless, sweaty boys and obnoxious crowd-killing teenagers. The floor is slick with sweat. I turn around at one point to see a young girl face down on the floor, completely motionless. We help her up. Her friends escort her out of the pit. I guess she’s fine. I don’t have time to think about it for much longer, as I’m suddenly raising my elbows to defend myself from yet another dripping-wet mass of human flesh and unbridled energy. Henderson drops off the stage and into the crowd, screaming into our faces one by one like he’s looking for a fight. It’s hard to breathe. Hard to stand. I think I might find myself facedown as well if it keeps up like this, but then suddenly: Silence.
As if the car has smashed through the guardrail, crested the hill, and finally stopped rolling around the tenth rotation, I take a breath, check myself for injuries, and clamber out from the wreckage. Another Truck Violence gig survived.
photos by Stephan Boissonneault
