Wovenhand

Meet Wovenhand, an ultra serious outfit started as a side/solo project for 16 Horsepower's front man David Eugene Edwards.  However, upon the untimely demise of said Horsepower, it became a full band, with Edwards leading a very grim charge.  Their bizarre mix of dark folk, punk, industrial, and experimental rock make them one of the hardest bands to categorize in secular music, even more so in Christian.

 

The murky background mirrors the equally murky lyrics and prose of one of the most intense bands strumming (yes strumming) their electric guitars.  Their subject matter has the initial semblance of hymns.  Often about God, and the Christian walk, however, a more road weary and energetically exhausted sounding pilgrim has yet to be named David Eugene.  Likewise the label 'hymn' is hardly a competent term.  These songs are a running dialogue, caught somewhere between Job and David of the Bible.

At a distance this image does an excellent job of visually summarizing the band.  The colors flatly state vintage value.  The dull silver and gold seem extravagant, not in terms of actual value, but rather as a collector's item, which is what the music is.

As you move closer the leafy motif and flowery inhabitants of the coffin are instant triggers for thoughts of country/folk/blues music, which, although not what this is, is exactly the way you should be thinking when you go to their show. They move around the image and in the coffin in a slow dance, and the image has become more then a summary.  It is a story in itself.  A prequel.

The font for the logo is a surprising choice and alone saves the image from being hopelessly trapped in the south.  It's utter English monkishness proclaims an epic story.  It also gives the overall poster an almost sci fi flavor, and, besides the axe, is the most energetic element.

Distinctly like the music, the intended message of the poster is difficult to lay hold of.  The axe floats dangerously off the page, traces of it's dubious final movement echo around it's prison, the coffin.  It practically screams, just like David Eugene, of a buried secret, and the mind instantly jumps to a violent one.  It is such a strong act three story that the viewer can hardly help offering at least a moment's consideration. 

However, it lays amongst flowers, possibly implying the death and burial of beauty, or something beautiful.  It could also be a reference to the old term, "Bury the hatchets!" This myriad of conflicting messages is a strong hook to come to the concert, demanding answers.  However, it must be said, that whether or not the band can deliver or not is in question.  

The poster, while entirely effective in it's duties, may be a little too perfect a reflection of the band. Their answers read as questions, and their story, perhaps like life itself seems to stretch endlessly into the horizon.

The National

The National is a tight, crisp indy-pop group, which is more anti reverb and grandiosity then a snail, but has the energy and fresh relevance of a sunrise.  Perhaps that is why (hmm, the name might also have played a small part) they where one of Obama's foremost bands.

The national, an already prestigious and award winning Brooklyn band printed tee shirts with Obama's picture with the word Mr. November printed under it.  This was both a reference to their song of the same name, and also the election month of November.  Some of their songs were used throughout his campaign at high profile rallies and videos.

Their earnest and off beat melodies are captured very well in the clear lines.  But, upon closer examination, the viewer can see a trace of grittiness leaked from their critical lyrics.

They are a band who quietly demands to be heard, and this is shown in blur test.  What do you see when you're far away? An N.  Simple.  They say this is about us, and what we have to say and how we are going to put it in your ears.

I think the colors are also an excellent choice.  The warm greys provide shock value when you see the red of the heart, which, when turned upside down, looks rather like an apologetic drop of blood falling off the blade, whispering, "I'm sorry, this is going to hurt a little."

Of course, the strongest message, the one even a very casual observer is bound to get, is pen triumphs over sword.  "Our words, our writings, our songs, are going to cut deeper then war." Or perhaps. Also hard not to notice is the dominating color, black.  This not only reflects the somber tone of the band, but the deep, distinctive vocals of Matt Berninger. 

Altogether, this poster couldn't do a better job of forcing passers by to hear the music in their heads, feel the message in their souls, and basically sell the show.  All, as the band, seemingly without hardly lifting a finger.

Jello Biafra and the Melvins

Jello Biafra is probably best known for his work with The Dead Kennedys. His lyrics and singing style where a spark screaming catalyst for punk music.  His braininess and reckless anger slowly became the entry under: PUNK, in the dictionary.  He is a self proclaimed anarchist and vocally promotes civil disobedience.  To add a little color he also subscribes to more activist parties then you can count on both hands, including environmentalism, and anti-capitalism. 

Everything about the man is loud, which is why the coy subtly of this piece works so flawlessly.  From a distance you would see a soft blur of pink and blue rather reminiscent of a baby shower or seven year girl's ballet class.  

But, as the poor sap drifts closer the disturbing and rather gory image of a skinless horse tunes the viewer's hapless ears to the sound of severe mockery.  It's feminine semblance of class and mild stuffiness only drive the jab in farther. 

Like everything about Biafra, the image is starkly opposite of what you'd expect, and it cockily states an utter strength and pride in itself.  It doesn't care.  Do they want you to come to their show? Yes. Do they care if you don't? Not a chance. Why? Because they're punks.

This picture is so right on that it's scary.  A large sector of today's rebels scream bloody murder about being heard, then dampen their hair spikes in a great big bucket of I-Don't-Know-What-To-Care-About-But-It-Sure-Ain't-You.