Acumen Nation Entertainment Art Double Door Chicago, Ill. October 13, 2006

Early in the evening The Doomsday Social arrived on stage with a much more melodic sound than the name would suggest. The vocals were less attractive than the music, yet a pleasant surprise from a heavier style than would be exposed later in the night. A somewhat newly-formed band, they did well to contain the sparse crowd with strong presence and uniform musical simplicity. Many of their friends were there showing support for the nervous lead singer James Knight who thanked the crowd in a we-know-our-band-isn't-so-well-known censuring. Ryan O'Neal of Sleeping At Last does the same thing when the crowd comes to see them and Zwan and goes even further to thank them for staying. It's always a death warrant when you ask the audience to dance, come closer, or to buy the album and this one was free. Michael Foderaro stood out as the unassuming, jovial guitarist with less than modest talent. Then Left Setter came on like a slap in the face.

Speeding things up, yet all the while putting a sour-chew in the mouths of those with good taste. The lead singer howled, growled, and did everything except entertain. Whatever kind of politico you may be, his shouting, "Bush is the worst president in the world ever," from his leather jacket and why-you-mess-with-me expressions is adolescent and a mockery of an over ran American tragedy on small television sets. He kept asking the audience if we had anything to say, and held the mic out. Two guys who looked like they wanted to take him out back looked like they wanted to speak with their actions. If he realized he was human and his colon could explode at any moment, he would have not been so hot. But these sentiments wouldn't stop him from standing at the bar throughout the evening in sunglasses with his arms crossed like a spoiled child mimicking a wrestling tournament. The crowd was embarrassed for him. Their music is generic and easily recyclable. When you took your gaze off the boring singer, you were inundated with pointless neighborhood street footage and visual irritation of the towers falling. You could tell by the looks of the oddly assembled crowd that this was poor form. When the hag in Zebra pants isn't even entertained you've got a problem.

Once that nightmare was over, some jester-type stage-hands attempted nearly in vain to raise giant silk-screen banners with lower case M's dyed across them. This is the symbol for another Chicago based gothic-industrial quadro-tron called Marazene. What a shocking blow to the eyes these guys were! Draped in dreadlocks to his ankles, the lead singer hung over a white strobe box exposing his chalky white and black splotched angry face. Hot-Topic shoppers would be role-playing a murder spree for the heavy-metal garb they had on. The rest of the band suited and ready for action could've been shooting a video for Head bangers Ball. Then again, perhaps the others were not taking this seriously enough. Marazene stomped like Ali coming out to fight Foreman, and finding a three year old... This was easy for them. They're ready for the stadium show, yet they still had the respect to thank Acumen five thousand times. The lyrics were self-defecating yet all the while intelligence-driven and the sound they produce can blow away the most pompous metal enthusiasts. In a Thrill Kill Cult type fashion wielding 100-proof aggression, they caused everyone to seethe for more.

After much time, and recovery from Marazene, the sons of Front 242, Acumen Nation regained our attention, yet somehow seemed muted compared to the previous theatrics. Jason Nowak's shrieky vocals were an always-interesting way to transmit the message, "It's kind of sexy," which seems all very tongue-in-cheek. Eliot Engelman's hovering-yellow jacket slide progression on bass is deceptive in relation to how fast he's actually hitting the strings. It's unnatural for such an even-flowing tempo to come out of the human hand. Like a controlled, painful tremor of calculated genius. If he's just ear-balling it, he's not one of us. Engelman is leaving Chicago and Acumen after nearly 10 years and received a touching Dead Poet's Society send-off from his band mates and best friends. Most industrial bands cheat audiences by putting their trust in drum machines and various electronics to achieve cyborg sounds, which is a labor for disappointing artifice. The anticipatory reflex to Acumen's additional in-laid canned tracks is stunningly precise and immediate. This is Yo Yo Ma for the kids in Saturday detention halls. This is jazz for teenagers consuming the anger of their older siblings' long-ago battles. Acumen Nation is not overwrought with philosophy, but at once bitchy and fun. The drummer kept up tempo in a wickedly difficult set, and both guitarists steamrolled alongside the ravenous bass lines. As a certainty, the band's delivery is not overzealous or naive in the rhythm department. Their treacherous soundscapes laid waste to the weak-kneed. With any luck, there will be more like them.

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