Bloop and Thunder

The first time I saw the Norwegian black metal band 1349, its usual drummer, Frost, was absent. Filling in on the skins was the barrel-chested Tony Laureano. The band’s stage show was riveting. Black-and-white corpse paint was smeared on faces, chests, and arms. Strobe lights captured the band’s fearsome visages in still—like those flashes of the demon Pazuzu in The Exorcist. I was transfixed as much by the band’s look as by its music. Still, I had to break the spell and sneak around the back of the stage to check out Laureano’s work up close. I watched his feet hammer on double-bass pedals with impossible speed. His waist swiveled as he played a seemingly endless stream of fills on the skins. Elbows bent, arms spaced just so he methodically swept back and forth across his kit. The motion of his wrists was precise and mechanical. The man was sweating, but it felt like I was watching a machine at work.

There’s a bumper sticker that says, “Drum Machines Have No Soul.” The quote is part of a campaign by Los Angeles pianist John Wood to see a return to the good old days of music—when seasoned instrumentalists recorded timeless music. Trouble is that every generation has its own brand of nostalgia. So while gray old dudes bemoan the fall of the session musician, there are others with their eyes cast to a much nearer, more mechanical past.