Eles não eram mesmo uma banda para poucos. Eles eram uma banda para eles mesmos. Vai ficar na memória de poucos que tiveram o privilégio de vê-los ao vivo. Quisera eu ser um deles.
O texto abaixo é a melhor descrição que eu já vi deles. Khanate era isso.
Named for a period of Mongol rule, New York City’s Khanate was not a band for few; they were a band for no one. Guitar snarled, spat, heaved and shrieked; horizon wide riffs revealed their selves only to contort into thorny scrabbles of feedback, broken harmonics, dog whistle whine. Drums stalked and plummeted and perforated; stabbing, clubbing, knocking craters into each song’s structure deep enough to fill with the pain that “vokill” troll Alan Dubin must carry with him. Whispers—words given in confidence; screams—declarations of the state of affairs; converse—talk taken into worm-infested graves and worn as a beard of bees. Bassist James Plotkin was an essential part of the Khanate ritual, turning nothing into something; realizing presence in empty rooms via boiling bass rattles, and laptop mad science.
“I wear a human shield—shh-shh.”
Dubin sometimes screamed so shrilly he went black; passing out from the power of his own breath. Plotkin blew four bass heads in one year; O’Malley plumbed the darkest depths of A minor, his strings nearly disconnected from their neck. Whatever heads drummer Tim Wyskida hammered have passed the terror test; that skin company’s practically got a goldmine of an endorsement ad waiting in the wings. Significantly, the gear fails to acquiesce most of the time, beaten into the void as a beachhead by tidal torrent. Read More »Khanate