Live at Sokol Underground, Omaha, Neb.
Words by Braden Rapp//Illustration by Jorge Tapia
Castanets were playing when I woke up feeling war-torn. They reeked of a tour pained by the breaking of their (Line 6) pedal, as well as their drummer. Sure, the duo looked a tad busted, but that fact really only acted as a compliment to the utterly cracked sparsity of Raymond Raposa’s songwriting. They tatted out the less adorned numbers of both “Cathedral” and “First Light”’s freeze, breathing forth the foreboding of a bad day’s morning. I felt that, and I felt for them. Raposa’s voice was a crystalline manifestation of being dealt a terrible hand. Jana Hunter’s bass was an exhausted backbone. The set went on without rapport, and concluded succinctly with an e-bow based wall of sound that probably would have made Kevin Shields grin. Even so, their crippled chords placed weights on my limbs, and forced awareness. The day was heading into shady territory, and as a signifier Devics began.

Sara Lov crooned a cry over a crescendo of keys, constructing a dwelling for my deteriorated mental state. Melancholic pop at its best makes a lot more sense in battered context. Devics have been around since ’93. They’ve had years of pitfalls and ascension to craft their musical bouts. And oh, it was so well-crafted. Dirges don’t always come coupled with the emotion and engagingly reserved energy that Devics’ did. They were an ever crooking scenery that arched right through slow piano bred longing, and shoegazing flickers of wanton catharsis. Despite half-hopeful mid-set moments, I couldn’t help but dig the dirty road riding beneath such bittersweet melodies. The likes of which reared their frothy mouths as Devics neared set’s end. I was cast into the underbelly that had, until then, only surfaced sporadically. A minor key laden duo of songs, both fronted by an afflicted female behind a bullhorn, they reeked of a dolor akin to Moonlight Sonata. That is when the sinking became clear. Those hints at relief were merely a ploy, and through waning light, my senses fought a static backbeat which settled over what I assumed was a body. (uh oh!)

If my speculations were correct, her skin would have been wickedly white and clutching some piece of paper that would undoubtedly incriminate me. The fallen femme would have previously been a pallet of life, but now augmented only by ghostly tones. Though, if there was no body, and I wasn’t in danger of being fingered for her murder, I’m not sure why Paul Jenkins & Co. made me feel like that was exactly what was going on. They let shriek the soundtrack for such a dreadful scenario. Astral hollers, courtesy of a bowed & bent saw, rung in the first act. This, alongside Jenkins’ creaking voice conveyed an atmosphere that flushed perfectly with the lost life of a once beautiful lady. Obviously, Black Heart Procession can navigate gloomy Gus landscapes better than most people would ever even want to.

When Jenkins finally left the folding chair to stand/sing/play a good portion of the more “upbeat” numbers from “The Spell, 1, 2, & 3” (oddly enough), the mood was so delightfully crestfallen it was almost a shame to feel it lift. They skimped almost completely on Amore Del Tropico material (save for Tropics of Love) and offered very little in the way of deviation from their dominantly forlorn mood, even when covering “You Got Lucky” by Tom Petty. But making things fun and dejected is an art form, I suppose. Such is the way of B to the H to the P. They may be as nefarious as the beauty’s body I presumed to be leveled and clutching my phone number, but they make it so brilliantly affecting that I would barely even mind being suspect.