Never could get into the Deerhoof thing. Always felt bad for it. Arriving at the sizable Metro for this sold-out show, I saw that the band had been giving out free rubber “Friend Opportunity” bracelets at their shows, merging Lance Armstrong, social networking and record promotion into one tidy marketing gimmick. Less cultish than charming, I eyed the bucket containing the bracelets and watched the concertgoers pick at them like self-conscious vultures. They are friends with Deerhoof, I’m not, and I’m jealous.

I’m all for fractured melodies and song structures, but Deerhoof’s recorded output always sounded like careless, emotionless experiments predicated on an uneasy balance between being intellectually engaging and sonically pleasing. Each album was filled with some lovely moments but mostly spiky, jittery, annoying noise. More than any band, their cover art became the only image I could think of while listening to each album, taking any sort of visual cue to understand the mess I was hearing.

And while one usually reserves “you’ve got to see them live”-type hyperbole for highly expressive rock bands or overly theatrical/technically ambitious acts, for Deerhoof, seeing these zanies in action finally gave them some meaning. Satomi Matsuzaki’s sing-songy lyrics — that’s being generous — always seem to be at the forefront of studio tracks, but it’s drummer Greg Saunier and guitarist John Dieterich who dominated this performance. Saunier, in particular, embodies the Deerhoof ethic as plainly as possible: he bangs on the drums like Animal before awkwardly getting up from his kit, ambling across the stage to Satomi’s mic while still clutching his sticks, and shyly thanks the audience before the lengthy trek back to his drums. Tellingly, the band is situated democratically, side-by-side near the front of the stage.

Deerhoof’s time signatures can only be expressed as irrational numbers, and Saunier’s hair flops like a loose toupee as he hits the skins. He seems to decide mid-stroke that he wants another cymbal crash or snare, and this impulsiveness creates a mathematical joy: it’s either prepared chaos or off-the-cuff improvisation. No noodling or Bonham solos here, either — this racket is fit for either a sound collage or a garage.

To Saunier’s right is Dieterich, who works tirelessly to redefine common notions of six-string proficiency. He toys with tone knobs, switches pickups and rarely uses processed effects to emit ungodly squeals from his axe; he’s even patented some tongue-wagging to go with his inimitable playing. And the strange footnote to these two wizards is Satomi, who sings in what is essentially gibberish — I imagine this is the only verbal equivalent to the rhythmic arcs of Deerhoof, but it still is grating. Satomi’s stage presence, however, is dynamic; hand gestures and little dances speak more to the music than her voice.

Physical description abounds because emotional ones are so difficult to understand. Songs came rat-a-tat-tat, occasionally cascading into beautiful, momentary syncopation before exploding into a Crayola color bomb, interrupted only by Saunier’s kind remarks. I still make no claims to understanding it, but the act of seeing Deerhoof rather than simply hearing them added something to the process. Noise is easy enough to make on one’s own, but even screaming will wear you out.

Deerhoof Official Site
Kill Rock Stars Official Site