The heartbeat that is black midi

In my poetry class, I learned of the relationship between breath in occurrence with how we experience a poem. Where we take these breaths, how we take our breaths, and when we take our breaths, influence our relationship to the movement of the poem. In this lecture, I was taught to think about my breath in relation to how I relate with others. At what point do we stop breathing for ourselves and at which point are we able to notice when our breath is influenced by those around us? Is it when we are huddled together with our friends as we anticipate the killer in a thrasher movie? Is it a high school cross country race as we try to match the pace of our opponent? Is it laying with the one we love as we observe how our chests move in unison? 

I’d argue it’s when Morgan Simpson hammers on a sparkly green Ludwig, slamming a high-hat that makes me catch my breath. I’d offer it’s Geordie Greep nonchalantly shredding on an orange Reverend as Cameron Picton plays bass in a completely different time frame. I’d fight to convince everyone that the moment we contemplate our existence on earth, the moment we are uncomfortably made aware of how sometimes we breathe involuntarily, is when black midi explodes onstage playing “953” off of their 2019 release Schlagenheim. This personification of a poem was something incomprehensible to me until I experienced the boom of black midi at the Great American Music Hall. Their prolific sound felt as though it were teaching me how to breathe in unison to their poetic instrumental technique. For over an hour, their performance existed to keep the crowd alive. 

I can only describe black midi as a noise-rock, prog-rock, jazz enthusiast group of weirdos. They first caught my eye in their performance on KEXP when the guitarist blasted a snippet from Big Brother into his guitar pickup and looped it for the backing of the song. I had no idea who they were or where they came from, but at that moment, I felt that no one else was currently doing it like them. 

Quite generally, their presence on stage was entirely influential in creating a venue that felt alive. This coercion and hunger for the band was prevalent even before they showed up on stage. There was a shared sense of longing and admiration that permeated throughout the neon-lit venue as fans alike shared stories of inspiration and awe over black midi’s talent. What I found fascinating was my inability to pin down a common aesthetic of the fanbase, as everyone there varied in their sense of expression, age, and identity. It was comforting to know that black midi, a band with avante-garde music style and a tendency to be described as an “acquired taste,” could attract a crowd so mismatched. It made me smile to see how comfortable everyone felt in expressing themselves in a space that would seem to solely attract a specific niche. Though everyone was there to see the band, they still existed on a plane that was unique to their own. 

I was sipping on a Pabst blue ribbon the moment black midi burst on stage in Adidas tracksuits, button-downs, loosely fitted ties, and a swagger that was reflected in Geordie Greep’s epic black sunglasses. Greep picked up his gnarly guitar and introduced us to Cameron Picton on bass, Morgan Simpson on drums, Seth Evans on keyboard, and Kaidi Akinnibi on saxophone. Instantly, Simpson took the reins of the stage with “953” and immediately the crowd began to respond as a collective body. I wondered if everybody else felt like the band was breathing for them, or if they just instinctively felt the urge to move with the beat. It was an excellent choice of an opener and the emotion of the crowd could be felt in every corner of the venue. 

black midi was bold and behaved outside the lines. They challenge and build off of what is currently understood as progressive rock in the 21st century. Instead of an encore, they sang us happy birthday. Kaidi Akinnibi eventually wandered off stage, still expertly playing along on saxophone, and opted to dance around the columns of the building while he performed. At one point, Cameron seemed to have disappeared, but he was really playing bass from behind a curtain. The saxophone is played into distortion pedals, voice recordings are amplified through guitar pickups, and every instrumentalist seems to be playing in a different time signature. It is mayhem, amplified, and it feels like it shouldn’t work – but it does. Each instrument fits into the song like an elaborate puzzle. They knew exactly what to add to each song, and obviously, exactly what to omit. It’s a calculated, concise feeling of chaos and I loved every moment of it. 

Morgan Simpson stood out to me the most. Each time his drumstick hit the skin of his drum, I could feel the hairs along my arm stand up. He felt like the conductor of the orchestra that was the Great American Music Hall. I was entranced by his skill and it was his playing that made real for me the influence others have on how we breathe. As the energy of the crowd built off of his playing, he built off of us and cultivated a combined heartbeat inside of the Great American Music Hall. While I was drawn to his contribution to the band, it still was not obvious who the lead was. This didn’t matter though, I was living for each player. They each took turns nurturing the music flowing through me. 

Being aware of my breathing or how I was responding to the influence of others used to terrify me. At a black midi concert, forget about the anxiety over perceiving your own breath and heartbeat and welcome the chance to live by the music. 

Article and photo by Avery Flieder