I have a new-found respect for metal. Music that is. Having gone to experience once more a sonic assault by the wonderful Yellow Swans, I got to hear also the "shamanic black hole doom" of Black Boned Angel. (Their words, not mine.) They came on first - Campbell Kneale on guitar (Birchville Cat Motel) and the drummer from The Stumps on bass. Between them they conjured up a glowering mass of noise that filled every crevice and orifice of everything and everyone at the little Valve bar. Big shuddering guitar, deeply primal. Kneale's connection to his guitar, and at times, the speaker, looked deeply sexual. Or had I drunk too much beer. And then, my initiation into the metal scene: Backyard Burial "Lower Hutt Grind Scum". It was as much fun to watch the crowd as it was the band. Since I listen mostly to indie pop, alt country, electronica in many forms and a bit of what could be described loosely as rock, this was totally new to me. I hear something of it's ilk out of my son's bedroom. I kinda liked it. I got myself into a headspace that was just taking it in: watching, observing, listening, and trying not to judge. I ended up coming to the conclusion that there were similarities here with jungle - fast dirty jackhammer beats - than with any other music I knew. And then - another dose of Yellow Swans. These guys play for a short time, but with music as intense as theirs it's long enough. It was so intense I nearly peed my pants. Okay, that's a lie, but I don't know how else to describe how it built up internally till I felt like I was gonna burst. I wonder what it must feel to make music like that. It's like an incanatation - summoning up some kind of ferocious manifestation of noise. Exhilirating. Saying that the music has an orgasmic nature sounds trite, but it's kinda true. I don't know that I would want to listen to them recorded. I imagine it would lose it's intensity.