Monotonix live review, Thursday, February 21st @ Satyricon, Portland, OR.
Photo above NOT from Portland show

Well, Goddamnit. I told you to go. And for the most part—juding by the crowd of 20 or 25—you didn’t. So let’s be sure—you missed the fuck out. The Monotonix, all the way from Tel Aviv, Israel, played Satyricon Thursday night and it was a most unique, cathartic, visceral experience.

“I feel like my soul’s been cleansed,” I told my friend afterwards.

“I love that you said that. I know what you mean,” she said, throwing her arms around me.

It wasn’t a romantic thing, but thanks to the show, there was love in the air. Everyone was bouncing on it, as if we all went through something together—which indeed we had. And that’s really something when you consider that thrashing, chugging, heavy music inspired such emotion.

But as much Monotonix’s strong, driving tunes did it, so did their performance, equally if not more so. It began as the tiny-fireball of a lead-singer beckoned the crowd to come closer. The band had set up on the floor, and he was dancing wildly in the small circle before drawing it even closer. His jerky, funky moves at the beginning were a signal—inhibitions and shame would be neither necessary nor tolerated on this night (or, for that matter, any night).

The music crashed in, and to my surprise the band sported a new drummer. At first I worried. He was playing sitting down (the regular drummer plays a strange, stand-up kit that is moved into and around the audience throughout the show). But this new guy (no word on if he’s a replacement or just filling in) held shit down. After a few songs it didn’t much matter. The trio were tight as a whip, and the drumset moved anyway.

Everyone was dancing, even my friend, who is certainly a stranger to heavier, punkier shit like this. It didn’t matter though. The beats were there, and even at their most sonically aggressive, the Montonix are still friendly and for the most part, accessible.

The drummer is pounding, the guitarist is slashing back and forth, shooting his guitar into the air, firing rapid fire pentatonic riffs, and the singer is settling in. He’s blasting water all over the place, into his pants and out of his nostrils. He’s dancing up a broke-bird storm.

He’s on the amps, the chairs, the floor, the drums and then he spies a little ledge. A boost shoots him up there and he’s dangling and singing. After a song ends and another kicks in he sticks his finger out at me a motions for me to come over, below him. He’s jumping down and I’m going to break his fall. Alright. Shit. Here we go. Nimble little bastard. All works out and he’s back flipping around.

The songs get melodically stronger and more danceable, but all the while heavy as hell.

He eyes a trash can. It’s full. (My friend tells me later when he spots it, she sees his eyes light up like moons.) In no time the stinking trashcan is atop the drummer’s head, rotten garbage strewn all over. Now we’re swimming in it. The singer literally does. Not for shock value I believe, but for catharsis, and lightening—proving the pointlessness of shame and regret, and inhabiting the here and now. Letting life flow through you.

All the while the drums and guitar march and stomp surgically. They don’t stop to breathe. That guitarist can really play. On massive shot of adrenaline, pulsing collectively through the crowd.

The singer dismantles the drumset, sharing pieces and sticks with everyone around while the drummer mashes on what he’s got left. The garbage can and a stool are now pieces of percussion. The singer points at people, directing them to different drums. It’s becoming tribal. Probably about seven or eight drummers drumming now. Heavy, heavy, syncopated beats.

He motions to me again. A couple of us are standing around the now turned over bass drum. He brings the drummer over on top and hands the snare to another. We slip around on the garbage filled floor, failing to get him up on the drum the first time. He’s a large man. The second time we get him up, shaky as hell. Tottering back and forth the snare is lifted to him, and above our heads, in the middle of the massive drum circle, guitarist still wailing, standing on a stool now, the drummer goes to work on the snare. It’s ridiculous. It’s heavy. Everyone is involved. It’s so much more collective than most any show you’ll ever see.

After holding him up there for I have no idea how long, it’s time to stop. Not sure how everyone knew, or even if we could’ve held him there much longer, but the show’s over. There’s no need for an encore after that – everything peaked and it’s ending on a high note. Hot damn.

Blood pumping through my veins, and all of a sudden we’re out on the street. She’s squirrely, and I feel light as a feather. And free. Just really free.