Wonderful Rainbow and Running

The album cover and metaphor for the music

I remember the details of my first listen to Lightning Bolt (LB) and their third album, "Wonderful Rainbow" (WR), quite well. I was instantly hooked.

I was a freshman at UC Santa Cruz. I was hitchhiking with a friend from the campus' summit to that same friend's house. Our casual chauffeur was playing WR uncomfortably loud while my friend and I bounced around in the backseat of the driver's jeep. Dog was the copilot.

I heard Brian Gibson's shimmering bass taps on "Crown of Storms." I was then sacked by his switch to jarring heavy metal churns. Later, both the tap and distortion coalesced and merged into sweet harmony. Meanwhile, Brian Chippendale, the drummer, shouted incomprehensibly through a voice scrambler and wailed out unreal percussion speed. Our driver told me who they were: Lightning Bolt, a drummer-bassist duo from Providence, Rhode Island. The headquarters for Sonic Youth.

I was floored. I couldn't believe that two vegan art students could make the heaviest music I had ever heard. It was my first introduction to instrumental metal/noise rock. I needed to get everything this band had to offer and become acquainted with all of its friends, inspirations and followers.

This was in 2003. It is now 2016. I still listen to WR more often than I care to admit.

I chose to review this decade-old album because very few people, including audiophiles, like it. Even some of my musician friends think LB's career sounds like garbage. That "g" in "garbage" isn't capitalized, so I'm not talking about the 90's band. Quite seriously, almost everyone I introduce to LB ends up hating them and I have introduced people to a lot of wierd music. It's status quo for your parents to hate your music. It's quite another problem when even your friends think you're trying to piss them off with your musical tastes.

The narrow appeal is apparent in the small venues at which LB is probably bound to play for the rest of their career. Even if you don't like the music, you should go for the experience. You'll notice that there is no area for a mosh pit - all of the concert is the mosh pit. You either mosh or aren't there.

LB's music is inconspicuously calculated. The music is like Jackson Pollock's smeared, trademark excrement. Looking closely enough, you can see the craftmanship, blue collar work ethic and calculated, angular movements. Shade over it with another piece of paper and graphite and you can see the blueprints beneath the seeming cacophony.

The sculpted endoskeleton is apparent in WR in sparse, surprising moments. When they happen, they're proof that this is more than just a distortion pissing contest. WR is rock but the band's approach and influences lean towards post-rock, modern classical and jazz. They have cited Sun Ra and Philip Glass as their main inspirations. Think of LB as "Explosions in the Sky" doing thrash metal.

What makes WR stand out from the rest of the LB catalog is how they achieved a unique sound in just three releases. Unlike their eponymous debut and second effort, "Ride the Skies," WR finds the band with refined tongue and cheek, coalescence, density and pure brain stem over-activation. The sound is robust, full, thick.

WR has a great tendency to give you breathing room that is just a little too short. WR has brief crystal clear skies tailed closely by dangerous turbulence. It's their practical joke. This is how the album starts, with "Hello Morning," a 50 second, lighter instrumental. It's almost as if it's about to be a post-rock album, reminiscent of early Tortoise. Then you realize that the drumming is just a tad too fast. Without warning, "Hello Morning" throws you into "Assassins," the beginning of WR's 40 minute siege. You then know that this album will be traveling at break-neck speed.

"Assassins" is a great opener, where in several spots it builds and climaxes. Crescendos abound in different styles all while accomplishing consistency. The bass backs off, the drumming picks up frequency and amplitude and then the bass enters back in with all of its guts and glory. Reverberations, walls of sound as Gibson simultaneously plays a ferocious lead to feed into these steep pinnacles.

"Dracula Mountain" begins with awkward skips and hops. It's too fluctuating to head bang to but too truculent to not. The beat gallops and then comes to screeching halts only to punch back to full speed. This repeats, drums accelerating as Chippendale creates a cadence and both musicians build. There is another relenting of the bass, a focus on vocals and irrepressible drumming, leading back into a build of cymbals and a looping riff. When the coda hits, the two move in for the kill, erupting with the finale that serves as one of the best thrash codas to date. Kirk Hammett and Lars Ulrich may be impressed or taking notes.

"2 Towers" is the masterpiece of the album. The track is a sprawling, seven-minute rush, meant to only send you careening into the duo`s tornado. It's the soundtrack to apocalyptic storms, shrouding the skies and stirring up seas. Gibson opens with a his trademark tapping, a build that suggests that this track is going to kill. Afterwards, Gibson fills every gap with full throttle distortion, a gravy train of pure malevolence, while Chippendale does his drive-by of cymbals and snares and furiously kicking base. His singing is 6 feet under and projecting through his voice scrambler. "Towers" is so dense that it's difficult to hear the two musician's time signature changes. The two are buried in the chaos. The track ends just as fiercely as it opened, with alto bass shrieks and higher frequency base drumming. At some point, “Towers” achieves ambiance. Comforting like being stuck in an MRI tube.

Technical prowess hidden by post-modernism. It's not that Gibson uses complex riffs and notes constantly. He is just very adept with textures and switching seamlessly from lead to rhythm. Chippendale's drumming is also simple. His talent is being able to be in several places at once. He flails with remarkable accuracy.

On "Crown of Storms," crystal-clear tapping opens the song and are abound, present and lead the way over the classic heavy metal crunching. This is where we hear Gibson simultaneously tapping and distorting. They create the illusions of a full band rocking out harder than any of their peers. This track is slower but just as fierce and combative as the rest of the album.

"Crown" is followed by the tranquil "Longstockings," with Gibson's higher notes but still playing alongside Chippendale's frenzy. Just when you think this is the whole song, they throw you back into their offensive jazz. Again with the bait and switch.

Not letting up on their shtick, the eponymous track plays appropriately as a gentle intermission. It is lightly glazed with gentle, simple bass taps and skips of Chippendale's scatting.

This all comes to a close with the final two tracks which stray from the earlier "catchier" moments. "30,000 Monkies" is less for the pit and more for the ears. It could easily be mistaken for an early Boredoms song. It's a nice deviation, showcasing LB's knack for avant garde.

"Dual in the Deep" closes the album. It's a final free-for-all that continues with the shake up of the previous track. It's empty oil barrels, stalling engine turns laid over sweeping, skipping riffs and bass thumb brushing. It is a 6 minute track that builds from start to finish and sounds as if it is played with found objects.

WR isn't just loud: it's noisy. It's music that is not trying to cater to but challenge the listener. Whoever is left in the room will be head banging. LB takes away conventional elements of metal and zooms in on everything that that makes it great. For people who like jazz and heavy metal: the very few. For them, they will dig WR and it will never lose its effect.

..................

I also chose WR to review because today I am going on a 16 mile run. What means the most to me in this moment is this album. It has gotten me through many grueling workouts, notably unpleasant interval sessions. From the early practice runs, rides and swims, to the very events themselves, LB's catalog has been the support in my corner, namely with WR. Without it, I may not have performed as well and trained as hard.

WR even triggered my first out-of-body experience during the 2006 Sacramento International Marathon, my third marathon ever. I barely slept the night before. To go to sleep early I even did an upper body weight workout in the in-home gym of my host's house. But even the workout didn't put me to sleep. Perhaps it was the heat of too many carbs burning before bed. Or the anticipation. Or both. Despite insomnia, I had a since unmatched spiritual experience.

Hello morning

I wake up with the energy of a thousand solid REM cycles. I get my gear ready. The rest of the household is barren. The humming of noble gas from the refrigerator is discernible. It's in a choir with the fluorescent lights above me. I touch the kitchen window. The outside air must be stinging. The window frame edges are airbrushed white and the grass on the lawn is frosted. Winter in the Central Valley. Discontent is an understatement.

I am about to fill my camelback up with water. I veto the idea. I am plenty hydrated. Save the stomach space for coffee. I need to be as light as possible if I anticipate a sub-3 hour. Just the iPod in a sports band, small tube of Vaseline and attire. There are aide stations if I really need to drink. Breakfast is Krispee Kreme. A far cry from nutritious.

My girlfriend and I take a stop by a drive-through Krispee Kreme. A box of a dozen assorted. All mine. Both of us get the largest coffee. Steam drifts out in adiabatic cooling from the mouth opening. Mini tea kettle.

6 am. We are in the car and alone on the highway. Only a few speckled other convoy. I guess that these few sprinkled cars are also on their way to the same event. I eat 6 cream filled eclairs. Satisfied but not stuffed. Mastication and swallowing is interspersed with sips of coffee. My hands vibrate in an aura of pallor skin. Anticipation is killing me.

Admittedly my stomach is in a bit of distention. But I have ran on worse food items and more before; whole cheesecakes, pizza pies, burritos, for example. My stomach is a nuclear waste cask. Once something is in its not getting out. I am looking forward to the post-race meal of an 1000+ calorie breakfast of protein and fat. Eggs and bacon. I reason to myself that it is purely for recovery purposes.

The girlfriend is making small talk. She is only lying to herself that she is even a fraction as awake as I am.  I am responding to her questions and comments but it is merely vacant, courtesy reciprocation. My mind is too latched on the portence of the next three hours of my life. Gas stations, darkened buildings, street lights beat by. Illuminated musical notes on a black sheet of paper.

Rolling up to the drop off point. There is a mile and a half between here and the starting line. It is a good warming up distance of a road with unbroken rows of trees on either side. I give the girl a kiss with everything I've got. Ditch the glasses on the dashboard. Opening the door, the winter morning air is a swift kick to every body part. Incentive enough to start moving. Immediately. My shoes are made of cement at first. The cold does this to me. I run for about 15 minutes, each half-mile split progressing. Buses filled with other racers cruise by. The drivers honk. I am on the shoulder, doing my best not to freeze to death. 'When the hell is this coffee going to kick in?'

I'm warming up to "Jane Says" on the Jane's Addiction '97 live album. Flea is slapping the thicker strings, Perkins tests the steel drum's reflexes, Navarro strums on an acoustic and Farrell emulates a peacock. You get an image of what Farrell looks like based his vocals. He struts around the stage in a manner that Mick Jagger would call flamboyant. He has an obvious predilection to women's clothing and leather, fur-lined everything, tight fitting jeans, boas, eyeliner. Androgynous sex appeal you can't escape.

Once at the starting line, I keep the energy going with single leg squats, planks, lunges and push-ups. I've gotten comfortable and I'm not giving it up. This excess is the only thing keeping icicles from forming off of my limbs. The announcer is jabbering off in the background. I can hear every word he is saying but none of it is processing. I am boiling over like a pressure cooker, waiting for the goddamned starting siren to go off. Everyone around me is jogging in place, knocking out squats, active stretches, making friction on their bare body parts. Either it's their regular ritual or just for today's unrepentant weather.

Without warning, the crowd begins its draw to the starting line. They must have been paying attention to the Emcee. I push my way up to the front.

'Keep the pace, keep the pace, keep the pace,'

"Runners, we have 1 minute until go time."

'Look at the watch. All you have to do is hold a 6:40 mile.'

"Runners, we have 30 seconds."

'Don't go hog wild. You have a habit of going hog wild and burning out too soon.'

"10 seconds."

'Breathe breathe breathe you're not breathing,'

"5 seconds"

My jaw is tight, putting my head in a vice, the tinnitus exacerbating. My head is stuck in a trash can while someone bangs on it. Something wants me to jack rabbit this start. Fuel injectors vibrate with an octane surge. I don't need my brain to run.

'Fuck pacing.' I wonder who this new voice is. 'Risk it. You are being chased by wolves. Think like a reptile. It is trained for the art of flight.'

My heart dilates and pumps glucose and epinephrine saturated blood from a broken floodgate. Glycogen catabolizes, aveoli expand, hair stands up, wide awake now, intestinal tract expands.

'Keep yesterday's meal in there, pal. It's only a race. Make it without shitting yourself. Other than that, I'll do this for you.'

Starting Gun.

Assassins

The spear pulls me. I ignored my own advice and the wheel is ripped from my hands. Someone else is piloting. My heart rate goes from resting to 180 in mere seconds. Spring one way you sprint all ways. My body is tingling yet my limbs are numb like the cervical has been severed. I'm here and my body is kicking furiously and white paint on the pavement is going by at 10 mph. This isn't just coffee.

Now for the first hill.

Dracula Mountain

I'm leading the pack. The spear sticks out of my chest and ignores my internal cries for pain. I'm flying. I get to the hill's peak and look out over the horizon, the sun just kindling but enough to illuminate the details on a vast landscape.

Drums roll, more layers are caked on.

2 Towers

I am on my descent, I pick up speed. Markers pass by at 12 mph, calluses take the beating. Psychedelic swirls and synesthesia. The sky disappears behind the black silhouettes of slumbering forest and houses. Everyone is still asleep and I'm running harder than a short sprint. I'm vigilant and alert and I'm heating the pavement at 7:30 on a Sunday morning, the smell of sausages nowhere wafting, the burners not even an anticipation, people still in bed, few spectators. I'm ahead of the pack, all alone, the spear wrenching my sternum and its fluke tearing at my shoulder blades, my left side in a tight knot, every part of me begging the spear to stop but it ignores good judgment and does what it wants without apology. I have been training for months for this but I had no idea what was being built. A spear, a juggernaut unaffected by gravity or energy lost to heat, sound or obstacles. It's launching into Baghdad, London, Dresden, Hanoi, New York City - it does not adhere to the Geneva Convention: no prisoners. No distance, only displacement regardless of what is in the way.

'Either run them over or drown them in your wake,' it says. I rear my head and let out a long battle cry. It's diminished by the blaring headphones but the onlookers' eyes go wide and they laugh, hold up a sign that reads "shake a leg" and ring their cowbell.

'I will shake a leg, thank you.'

My heart rate monitor reads 181. Go faster. 183. Whatever this strange machine is that I have built I like it; I am barely doing any work. I am bathing in the spear's red hot tail and exhaust stench. Burning organic compounds. No hydration is needed. I pass by stations and just throw the water at my face. No coordination. The spear only knows how to accelerate and generate force. I was born to do this.

Crown of Storms

I cross the finish line, fists in the air, lungs engorged with blood and atmosphere. There are volunteers holding up medals, water bottles and t-shirts. I grab at all three, missing at first from expenditure. The help eventually just hands all three to me into my bread basket. I stagger drunkenly through the crowd, the vendor tents, first aid stations. Delirious, I reason that I need to place myself on a grassy area across the sidewalk from the port-o-johns. There are sparse amounts of people here. Seconds later I am vomiting. There is no food to expel. The spear took everything it could from me to get performance. All I had left was mucus, bile and acid. No more water or essential minerals. All I could sacrifice any more of was my temperament of apathy.

Dual in the Depth

The heart rate comes down. The gods are appeased. The sacrifice was worthy. My soul has been sold but I got the better end of the deal.