In his master’s thesis, author Kurt Vonnegut forced mathematics and literature into an unlikely relationship by transforming famed stories into line graphs. Soaring peaks carefully scrawled across an axis represented euphoric moments; the low points were illustrated by deep, fading valleys. If one were to illustrate No Age’s long career, it’d be a raucous ebb and flow, one unsuited for an electrifying duo able to please the ambling art student as easily as the bona fide punk juggernaut with their recent release, “An Object.” The California duo’s current station on this journey is still in question; it may always be that way.
No Age is still searching for the critical balance between their hardcore past, a fluxed present and a somewhat uncertain future. The reincarnated remains of hardcore band Wives, vocalist/ drummer/bassist Dean Spunt and guitarist Randy Randall cling onto the jaggedness and riff flinging of their past but have instilled their ambling noise rock with Mission of Burma artiness and the SoCal sun-and-surf riffs.
Slamming their way through the DIY scene with exclusive runs of vinyl-only EPs, No Age had the steamy scuzz of their West Coast counterparts coupled with an appealing air of exclusivity. Seattle label Sub Pop eventually signed them onto their roster in 2008, and five years later, here they are, still playing the small rooms and backdoor venues. Last Friday, Sept. 13, it was Schubas. There’s no marquee. There’s no fancy production trickery – just two dudes with a mean streak for sloshy reverb and a high resolve for thunderous handmade rock.
Riot Fest’s opening night surely thinned out the flannel throng of recovering mosh vets, and the band has been dialing down to smaller and smaller rooms with each tour, but that only meant that the impact of their self-detonated art rock wields even more clout. No Age pried open the hour-long set with a flurrying loop that more closely resembled U2’s “City of Blinding Lights” than their viscous hocks of noise rock. In due time the tamed intro became swathed in feedback and a gust of backbeat; things got plenty dirty from there.
The Californians spend more of their time riding in the red and wiring their amps into ticking time bombs than they do tinkering around for a balanced sound. This garage-bred flippancy led to Spunt’s vocals becoming embroiled in a desperate (and losing) battle with the noise and clatter. Though this made the band’s tongue-in-cheek lyrics indecipherable, it was a thankful twist from the flattened studio sound they’ve been sporting as of late. Spunt attempted to even the sonic scales a few songs into the set when he requested for his vocals to be “turned up” for “Teen Creeps.” With Spunt’s vocals sputtering across the hacksaw melody, the show finally began to cozy into the volatile intimacy of house shows. No Age continued their cacophonous dive roll with shoegaze thrasher “Switches.”
The spry duo may have crawled from the grimy sludge and staticky reverb that lurks at the bottom of cement-floored basements, but they’ve embraced the sensitive artist within with their latest material, and they weren’t afraid to show it in their live show. Rather than pummeling through airless, blunt bangers, the duo took license to noodle around technicolored instrumental breaks and asymmetrical hooks. They’re not quite calculated enough to be called a thinking man’s band, but there’s definitely more than riff-rattled mayhem stirring in their skulls.
With percussionist Spunt playing an adrenaline-fueled game of touch-and-go between the drum kit and bass, his kinetic stage presence only increased the raw freneticism of the band’s music. The duo dialed into the reserves of their energy as they sank their teeth into new material for the meat of their set. Room rumbler “No Ground” resembled the trilling chipper rock of The Vaccines while singsong kissoff “I Won’t Be Your Generator” cast out the hook that ultimately clinched the readied audience.
“Fever Dreaming” was dedicated to the quietly invested audience, with a siren-blaring guitar screech punctuating the nearly four-minute jam, reminiscent of Japandroids’ blistering testoster-rock. They continued to wallop into cow punk heater, “Boy Void,” which was driven by its trampling riff.
When the night had finally wiled away and it ticked past midnight, No Age announced the imminence of the night’s end. When there were no more songs to dust off from the backburner, the band was ready to tap out and pack up their gear, ready to stumble upon a little bit more of whatever the future holds. Hopefully there’s a marquee in store for them; we all know they’ve paid their dues.
