Bloarzeyd
New
Woodenman
By Jose Fritz
There was no earthly justification for this show. It was at Rudy’s, a dive bar just two blocks off the Yale campus in New Haven, Connecticut. It’s the kind of place where the walls sport fresh phlegm on top of graffiti onto carved names on top of sweat stains with yellow fiberglass insulation poking out of foot-shaped holes. Somehow in this pit Bloarzeyd managed to be the filthiest occupant. Seconds after they finished the sky opened up, and it began to rain, even the earth felt dirty and had the urge to cleanse itself.
I don’t think there is a band alive today that fucks more with its audience. They tease, they mock, they goad and manipulate. Phil and Mike engaged in staring contests on stage generating a set of increasingly irregular breaks in song, verse and note. They began together then stopped. They head-faked and stopped. They were taunting each other. Where did the song end, did it have an end? Was this even a song? It was a sight never before seen. It was a game of turkey, played with a displaced quarter note.
The tard that booked the show set it up with two bands on a stage the size of a picnic table alternating songs. The result was Bloarzeyd terrifying some high-school kid so bad he peed himself and fell off the stage. I came to see a band wreak havoc, and they delivered.
I enjoyed the havoc but it became clear that Bloarzeyd hates us all. If you ask, they won’t even tell you how to pronounce their name. Is it Bloar-zee-eyed? Is it Blaor-zeed? Is it Bloar-zay-duh? Their answer is as succinct as it is vexing. “There is no official pronunciation.” They are evil geniuses —evil drunk geniuses. They exist as proof that evil geniuses do not wear gray jump suits and attach frickin’ laser beams to sharks heads. They get wasted and taunt other drunk people for their own amusement.
For example: the song titles were selected just for the purpose of further taunting. On the CD these are listed as “new song” and “new new song” and “new new new song.” The ID3 tags of the songs on the CD are totally different from the track listing on the CD itself. These were selected only to agitate record reviewers who are cock-blocked out of using them in a sentence. Those embedded titles are:
1. 404 Song Not Found
2. You Damned Fool
3. Critical Error
4. Check Engine
5. Please remove CD
They are bastards, evil drunk bastards and there’s no other way to say it. I for one am wildly amused. They rock with just bass, a microphone and a trap kit. Every song is more reckless and dissonant than the last. I am lost seconds into every song slack-jawed unable to even tap my foot. They combine my beloved punk attitude with the time changes of death metal, the filth of sludge core and the atonal wrongness of Big Black. That sounds so wrong, but it feels so right.
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