Sunbathing in the sound of Deafheaven

A drawn-out scream collides with a new crescendo, elevating you to a state susceptible to the pounding drums, giving you a new pulse that follows the rhythmic guitar. Behind you, bodies clash. Each shoulder-to-shoulder crash drives you forward against the crash barricade, exchanging more energy than any sort of pain. When you close your eyes and concentrate on deciphering the lyrics, you find sunlight behind each growl and scowl and words that, alongside the soaring melodies and the booming drums, evoke the expansive sceneries of nature they describe. On Saturday, March 16, Deafheaven performed at the UC Theatre in a double headliner with Baroness. Deafheaven is a Grammy-nominated band local to the Bay, known for its ingenious combination of musical influences, most notably of shoegaze and black metal, in a mix widely known as blackgaze.

Formed in 2010 by singer George Clarke and guitarist Kerry McCoy, the band rose to prominence with its critically-acclaimed album Sunbather (2013). Deafheaven was most recently nominated for Best Metal Performance for the track “Honeycomb,” off their most recent album, Ordinary Corrupt Human Love (2018).

Last Saturday, Deafheaven opened with “Brought to the Water,” the soft guttural intro over chiming bells reminding of the Campanile’s hourly song, perhaps with a distant helicopter overhead — not a strange sound for Berkeley. With its heavy riffs and and hard beats, the track immediately threw the audience into a furious frenzy. Though Baroness and opener Zeal & Ardor had already led their own energized performances, the crowd was ready for even more. The power Deafheaven brought to the stage revitalized the crowd with the instant, whirlwind jumping and hair-whipping of singer George Clarke to each drumroll by drummer Daniel Tracy. What the audience couldn’t bring Clarke summoned, coaxing more and more from the crowd by beckoning with his hands.

The intensity continued with their newest release “Black Brick,” a B-side from Human Love, before finding a somewhat more subdued energy in “Honeycomb,” which pushed towards a gradual build and still yielded a vibrant mosh pit. In its melodic moments towards the end, I watched Clarke hit a tambourine with such passion I couldn’t help but smile a bit (Video).

Clarke acted as both performer and conductor for the night; the crowd his orchestra. If the sheer wave of sound, melodic, layered, and loud coming from the band wasn’t invigorating enough, Clarke consistently drew from us, harvesting the passion of each fan to put more power into his performance. He lifted his chin, eyes wide and piercing, staring down into us as if to counter our attention with one unflinching stare. He lifted his arm, now leaning forward, pointing at each individual face in the crowd as if to say “you, you, you,” a reminder of our retained individuality in this shared experience. He thrusted the mic stand forward like a sword, with a foot propped up on a monitor. He arched his back like a sunbather, basking in the sound.

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I held the hands of my friend and of the kind lady I just met next to me, the gesture summoned by the overwhelming gratitude I felt from an appreciation of the music and the compassion around me. Deafheaven’s music coaxes a range of feelings, from gentle to raging. Even the opening notes to “Canary Yellow” alone embodied this, with a soaring descent into a gentle crash of melody, to a sudden change in tempo. As guitarist Shiv Mehra and bassist Chris Johnson chorused, “On and on and on we choke on . . . an everlasting, handsome night,” the sentiment was reflected in the show and in the performance’s own seemingly everlasting ardor.

Next was “Worthless Animal,” which Clarke introduced with a snarl. With eyes closed, I felt the reverb of the bass. I clutched my camera with both hands and tucked it under my sweatshirt as I pounded repeatedly against the crash barricades. At multiple points I felt my neck pressed between two arms — a tight and involuntary embrace from strangers — as the crowd pulsated and pushed to the shredding guitars. With my upper body’s limited capacity for movement, I, too, thrashed as hard as I could, leaning back on a human wall of fans, relying on them for protection from the widening pit behind me.

“It’s good to be home,” Clarke stated. He dedicated the set to friends and family in the audience, as Tracy blew a kiss out to the crowd, before launching into “Sunbather.” Deafheaven closed off the night with fan-favorite “Dreamhouse,” somehow driving a climatic end to a consistently energized show. Clarke came down over the barricade, leaning his sweat-drenched torso over the grasping hands of fans. McCoy lifted his guitar up over his shoulders, at the end of one final, extended note.

Immediately after the set, Jimi Hendrix’s “Purple Rain” flooded the venue, causing cries of “encore!” to dissolve into our own audience-led song.

The next day, I felt it — all across my shoulders, up the sides of my neck, in my still-ringing ears. Though I trekked all the way to the massage chairs in the RSF and could barely hear for the day, the temporary deafness was worth it. Sure, I was sore, but I still felt weightless — carried by remnants of Deafheaven’s soaring sound.

Article and photos by Rina Lu