The Blank Dogs have been around a few years, releasing mostly cassettes (who even owns a tape deck anymore?) and a few LPs, althought you can even download their songs for free on their website. Mystery seems to be what they are going for. They have no promotion, no posters and often refuse to play live shows. The singer was described by a friend as “a helpful clerk at Academy Records” and is known for shrouding himself in various materials and his appearance seems to remain ambiguous. Friday night at Le Poisson Rouge, projections of giant red fish surrounded with blue linear patterns plastered themselves over the walls and the crowd. A DJ filled the time before the Blank Dogs took the stage. The room was sparse but became packed at the beginning of their set. They filled a pretty big venue considering it’s one of the first shows they have played in Manhattan, and opening for the Black Dice doesn’t hurt either.
On Friday the singer was slightly hidden in a black hoodie, rarely raising his face out of the shadow of his sweater. The group was pretty big, all the basic instruments as well as obscure electronics and a saxophone player. The vocals sounded like layers of the same voice overlapping in fragments of seconds. Stacks of miscellaneous amps taller than they were framed the stage and hid the keyboardist. At times it seemed to feel like experimental pop punk, but not in a bad way. They held on to their morbid air without being too thrashy or too cliché.
Exactly five months after their highly blog-anticipated first show ever, the Blank Dogs are headed on a nation wide tour, 11 cities in one month including five SXSW shows. They have been compared to Joy Division, but that doesn’t do much justice. I got the impression of The Jesus and Mary Chain echoing through gravel and salt, which may not do much justice either. Simultaneously driving and lingering, raw and haunting, it’s hard to compare or to classify their music.
Nobody danced except for the few bouncing in the world’s smallest mosh pit, though the music fully warranted it. That’s to be expected at a Brooklyn band’s show in Manhattan, full of uptight kids in flannels and confused dudes with collared shirts. Rotating green dots splashed the darkness behind stage and smoke began to filter into the atmosphere, casting a multi-colored haze on the room. Both guitarists play Fender telecasters, one white, one orange and maroon. Though the sound was exciting, the bass was up to high and the songs never really seemed to reach the peak they were heading for. Some sounded a lot like the one you had just heard. The last song made up for the few that didn’t live up to their potential. They finished the show at its peak, a good way to go out.
Near the end of the set, the hidden knob turner (or keyboardist or something) took a call on his cell phone. They were all drinking on stage. This is exactly what makes them worthwhile and relevant: not giving a fuck in the best way possible.
