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BISCO INFERNO
Why the Disco Biscuits aren't another dreaded stereotype
By NATE LESKOVIC
del.ico.us
reddit!
Sometimes you know when it's time to move on.
A few years ago I was earning my beer money by cruising around town, picking up 10 random dogs in a van, and dropping them off at various parks to run around without a leash, terrorize homeless guys and shit wherever they pleased.
One day, the cutest 5-pound Yorkie was getting harassed by this ratty mutt and decided to sneak up front and lay low under my brake pedal. Attempting to stop at an intersection, I squashed the poor thing and nearly killed us all as we flew through the red light.
After the shrieking subsided, I tossed her back with the others and continued on until the wailing resumed. I stopped the van and saw the bully mutt thrashing the Yorkie off the walls, enough to make Michael Vick proud. A few well-placed blows released the victim, but allowed the others to escape down the street.
I knew it was time to move on—though I got fired first.
The Disco Biscuits were just one of a hundred noodle-happy bar bands caught up in the avalanche dynamited down the mountain by the mid-'90s peak of Phish—a guitar wanking, trust fund-blowing tour scene. Then they discovered the almighty four-to-the-floor dance beats—fondly referred to as the onomatopoetic beat sound "untz" by their fans—and relocated the party from summer amphitheatres overbooked with monotonous whiteboy jam-funk to sweaty, strobelit clubs.
The Philadelphia-based Biscuits knew it was time to move on, and in the late '90s perfected a dominating and spontaneous blend of electronic styles for their jams, with bleep-boops and sound washes that perked the ears of dedicated ravers. Though referred to as "trance-fusion," it contains elements of drum and bass, dub and techno.
Other bands on the jam scene embraced live electronica around this time—The New Deal with their house flavor; Sound Tribe Sector 9 and their psychedelic space exploration; and sometime-junglists, Lake Trout. In fact, a whole new generation of groups like Lotus, the Pnuma Trio and Boston's own the Indobox are no doubt influenced by the Biscuits—but none can rage like them.
Though the electronica vibe is pervasive at Biscuit shows, enough of a rock factor persists to provide an edge other bands in the scene lack. By "mixing" one song into another during sets—even switching the order of a song's sections—you could be lost in a mind-fuck psytrance workout like "The Great Abyss" and suddenly find your fist pumping to an arena rock throwdown like "Reactor." The improvised electronica jams are simply more powerful between the cathartic release of a sing-a-long or a glorious shredding guitar solo.
After a few years of languishing when the band's original drummer decided to pursue a career in medicine, the Biscuits triumphantly re-emerged two years ago with Allen Aucoin (pronounced o-quinn) to ram the kick drum through your chest. Rounding out the group are original members Marc Brownstein providing the bass anchor, dexterous guitarist Jon Gutwillig and Aaron Magner commanding a cockpit of keyboards and sound manipulators.
Aucoin, who spent two years at Berklee during the late '90s, says the band outlines a strategy for its jams, but does not necessarily follow it.
"It's definitely a free-form thing," he says. "I guess we kind of have an idea about the particular style we're going to stick to, be it a very heavy four-on-the-floor techno, or more of an open trance. Or maybe in the drum and bass realm we'll be lighter and prettier like LTJ Bukem-style or it will be kind of a dirtier thing, like a Squarepusher or Dieselboy style. But when it comes to point A to point B, the middle part is definitely open to everyone's interpretation."
This element of chance makes each show special and intriguing enough to keep fans salivating for more. It's the second straight year the band has booked the Orpheum for Halloween. At last year's gig they were decked out like Ringwraiths from Lord of the Rings and performed a tranced-out version of "O Fortuna" with members of the Boston Symphony Orchestra choir (you know, the classical piece used in countless over-the-top intense movie scenes).
"What we try to keep in mind is that we are trying to create some type of song structure in the middle of the jam rather than just getting together playing notes and seeing what happens," says Aucoin.
The results of this collaboration are often spectacular. Imagine if your iPod was on shuffle, but cross-faded between tracks there was a bumpin' dance party complete with seizure-inducing intelligent lighting and a packed house clinging to every beat.
"Last night we were playing "Crickets" and we went into "Shelby Rose" and then we came back out of "Shelby Rose" and somehow we wound up in almost a housey-type vibe and all of a sudden that turned into a funk and then we were teasing "Shem-Rah Boo" and we were in that for maybe 10 or 15 minutes," says Aucoin in typical Biscuits-speak.
Not all works out seamlessly on stage. Aligning 16 limbs instead of two records is a bitch and leads to piss-break opportunities during the more boring wandering parts. It's cliché to snicker about the band's singing as well, though they acknowledge this deficiency through a number of live releases with studio vocals overdubbed unapologetically.
But for anyone who gets bored staring at a DJ seductively twisting their knobs, or questioning if that wanker on stage with all the girls spilling drinks on his Mac is just pushing play; the Biscuits offer an organic, human mutation of electronica that channels energy like only bands can do.
DISCO BISCUITS
ORPHEUM THEATRE
WEDNESDAY, 10.31
1 HAMILTON PL., BOSTON
617.679.0810
7:30PM/ALL AGES/$29.50
