by John Nicholson
photo by HoJun Yu
You know it’s going to be a good night of rock and roll when WXPN’s the host and the crowd can’t stop jerking around in joy. In his young career, Benjamin Booker has already played the World Cafe Live in Philadelphia three times. Telling of the band’s quick rise into the spotlight, it’s also a testament to their intense road life. But there were no signs of weariness. At all. And on Tuesday night, the New Orleans band took a savage flamethrower to the city.
The Nashville-based openers, Blank Range, kicked off the night with their own blend of grungy, heavily-distorted alt-country. The house lights never went down for the guys, but watching them thrash around the stage in flannels, sweat and walls of fuzz, I couldn’t help but think of Philly’s own beloved rock darlings, The Districts. Messy and sharp. Like they just stepped out of a dingy ‘90s garage, the five-piece poured out a pure, hard-worn rock show. And just like that, the fire was stoked.
After a quick teardown and set-up, Booker’s powerful two-piece rhythm section — Alex Spoto on bass and Max Norton on drums — walked out. Spoto (great mustache) adjusted his fiddle and bow for a second then put it back in its case for later. In a moment, Booker strolled out with a round black porkpie hat on his head, black-painted nails, a bottle of Yuengling and a weathered black hollow body guitar hanging from his neck.
A big guy in the front row yelled, “Booker! Love the hat, bro.” He nodded at the man, kicked on his Big Muff fuzz pedal and started strumming barre chords hard as Norton charged ahead with forceful snare triplets. Hot off the release of their eponymous debut record, Booker immediately started kicking and pogoing around the stage without regard. Lights flashed and followed each member in the dark.
As Booker sung, he’d twist his foot wildly and contort his face all over the mike – veins like ropes down his neck. It was a fast start, even though the monitors muddied up his growling, husky vocals. Born of the DIY punk rock ethos, just a few minutes into the show and it was already clear that the Florida native thrives in those off-the-cuff moments of unfettered guitar gnashing. But for all the grit, the band knew how to highlight introspective lyrics and emotion.
Four songs in, Booker put down his guitar, Norton tuned his electric mandolin and Soto picked up his fiddle. They glided smoothly into a cathartic back porch spiritual. A hymn you’d hear somewhere down along the Mississippi River. The instrumental chops and minimalist design were pure — and the nod to their Southern traditions gave the trio some welcomed depth. After two like this, Booker picked up his guitar again and raged into “Wicked Waters” and then “Violent Shiver” — one of the tightest, outright bluesiest tunes of the set. Complete with choppy, double-time Chuck Berry and Blind Willie McTell-inspired guitar riffs. He knows his roots, that Benjamin Booker. Also a single from the new album, the girl next to me nodded her head at the start of “Violent Shiver”, motioned to her friends and bounced along in happy recognition. Booker would give her a bottle of water after the song.
Aside from introducing his band and a quick thanks to WXPN and the World Cafe Live, Booker didn’t say much. Not that that’s a bad thing. The crowd was satisfied just watching the spectacle unfold, witnessing a newcomer who’ll undoubtedly continue to climb the indie rock ranks. I was happy just to see him and his band wreak havoc up there.
There’s a reason Jack White chose Benjamin Booker to open for him this past summer. And it’s this: after the band got through their final song — a raucous, driving version of “Have You Seen My Son?” — they stormed on past the last notes and dove headfirst into a psycho, full-frontal rock and roll on-slaught. The room went black, strobe lights flickered wildly, Norton crashed on the cymbals, beat on the toms, Soto slapped his bass, Booker bent over backwards, fell to the ground, turned his deep fuzz pedal all the way up, erupted lasers of dark feedback and started kicking and yelling into nothing. In a state of total disregard, he stepped off stage onto the table barriers and started shredding, wailing away, almost falling into the crowd with each note. The cacophony continued in complete disarray when Booker climbed back on stage and laid his guitar down, dropping to his knees to pummel the loyal fretboard. Somewhere along the way he lost his hat. As Soto and Norton walked off stage, Booker stayed on his knees, ran his hands through his hair and gripped his face in agony. Some of it was showmanship, sure, but mostly it was unstable, deranged and perfect.
When Booker had enough of the noise, he stood up and ambled off stage, leaving it black and blue. The rotating loop of feedback and distortion rang steadily in and out at its own will, and he left it all to burn. It couldn’t have ended any other way.
Photo by HoJun Yu
