08/11/08
Text: Nik Mercer, Scott Indrisek
Los Angeles, August 8: Assembling any number of percussionists for a drum circle is no small task; somehow it always has the whiff of goofiness about it, the musical incoherence that follows all things hippy. Fortunately, Japan’s Boredoms has the chops—after twenty-plus years as a band—to pull it off. Last year's 77BoaDrum on July 7 was intriguing in that it brought together so many disparate drummers, but it didn’t always make good on its awe-inspiring potential. EYE and company nailed the concept better this year at the La Brea Tar Pits, pulling off an 88-member, 88-minute percussion celebration that began at 8:08PM on August 8th. The massive ensemble hadn't practiced before the show, and while the unrehearsed hackiness of the performance did occasionally shine through, it was offset by a thoughtful program revolving around a few key Boredoms songs. As one attendee, John Barundia, later wrote, "Quite simply: Nike brought the party; The 88 drummers involved with 88BoaDrum provided the jam. Ears popped in a rather glorious way."
New York, August 8: I never made it to 77BoaDrum in 2007, an event that later—thanks to the blogosphere’s endless blather—assumed the status of a holy myth. While some vocal critics got a bit miffed that the event was repeating itself, with Nike ad dollars no less, I could care less... if a multi-national shoe company wants to foot the bill for 88 long-haired, weirdly-dressed, freak-flag-flying musicians to bang the shit out of drums on the Williamsburg waterfront, why the hell not? Gang Gang Dance helmed the proceedings. Everything got off to a ramshackle start—I found myself wondering if human patience could possibly endure 88-minutes of pure rhythm—but then the entire ensemble clicked, en masse. (Either that, or the high-grade marijuana we’d smoked kicked in. Regardless, it’s a good takeaway for Nike: next year, hand out "Swoosh"-branded joints in the V.I.P. section. They go down easier than Bud Light Lime.) The physical set-up had a refreshingly cult-like appeal, like a kinder, gentler Fascism: 88-drummers arranged in perfect rows, whacking cymbals in synchronicity, facing GGD on the raised podium as if they were rock gods being paid a ritual offering. By the time it was all over—perfect weather, by the way, one of those crisp-clear Brooklyn evenings that make you happy to be outside, on the water, looking at Manhattan’s loom across the East River, with a bunch of douchebags in their luxe B-Burg condos gawking at the proceedings from behind glass—the sated masses were content to drift away, minds blown, into the night.
