Beat the Devil

The scene: Club Europa, Williamsburg. My mental state: poor. Running on a mere three hours of sleep, and still not entirely over a hellish afternoon lost in the labyrinth of sadness that is New Jersey, I sat in the club with just two people: my current lady interest, and my friend who, apparently forgetting my fixation on this women, had decided to sleep with her the previous evening. Ouch. As a deluge of phone calls came in from friends apologizing for not being able to join our happy trio, and it became ever the more clear that the awkwardness induced by my company would not be assuaged, I slammed three drinks as fast as I could. Pleasantly tipsy, and spitefully determined to have a good time, I sat in anticipation for the main act of the evening: Beat the Devil.

Painfully awkward situations aside, I was reasonably sure that I was not to be disappointed. After all, Shilpa Ray, Beat the Devil's lead singer, had recently been described in Time Out New York as “New York City's best frontperson,” and Spin.com had raved that “listening to Beat the Devil is like taking your first punch in the face.” Not bad reviews, but would the show be enough to salvage the evening?

The two opening acts, whose names elude me at the moment (for good reason) were lukewarm at best, but I feigned interest in an attempt to avoid conversation with the happy couple. I sat, despondent, praying to Zues, Ra, Thor, anyone who would listen, really, that the main act would be good enough to rescue me from the Hell in which I found myself.

The transition in sets between the opening acts and Beat the Devil was the most excruciating part of the evening. In mere moments, I would discover whether I would salvage victory from the jaws of defeat, or if I would go home crushed and despondent. It was at this point that I noticed one of the band members setting up a theremin (for those of you not in the know, the theremin is a rather obscure electronic instrument designed in Russia in 1919, whose pitch is determined based on how far away the maestro's hand is from a metal pole). There was a light at the end of the tunnel! I don't know about you, but I have never seen an act sporting that marvel of Soviet avant-garde ingenuity that has failed to impress. I was soon to discover that Beat the Devil would be no exception.

At long last, the set began. Nearly every song, began with Ms. Ray pumping a harmonium (yeah, I had to wikipedia that one when I got home to figure out what the hell it was), building up sound and fury until critical mass, and then, BAM! The audience was awash in a sound that can, perhaps, best be described as a cross between Amy Winehouse and Sonic Youth. The trio chucked out blues riffs like candy on Halloween, and Ray clearly possesses Winehouse's ability to sing in a delightfully low and soulful tone, but their sound also had a distinctive grunge feel.

The instrumentation was the pinnacle of absurdity. I mean, really. Drums, a bass, a theremin, and a harmonium that, to be perfectly honest, looked like a baby coffin. But the main attraction was the voice of the lead singer. Ray's voice shifted without warning between the seductive allure of a siren and the demon-wail of a banshee. Such expressions of rage haven't been communicated through primal screams since Kurt Cobain got it into his head that blowing out his brains would be a good idea (Just kidding, we all know it was murder!).

“How is that sound coming out of her?!” the backstabbing asshole exclaimed. And indeed, it didn't seem to make sense. Here was this small, attractive, sweet looking woman channeling the screams of the damned, singing lyrics that can only be penned by the most disaffected of souls. She broke the tension between songs, casually cracking jokes with the band. But with the rhythmic pumping of the coffin-harmonium, she once again transformed, a process repeated time and time again until the climactic last song. It was as if Faye, from the massively underrated anime Cowboy Beebop, had her in mind when she uttered the phrase,“Like a demon from heaven, or an angel from hell.”

I left the two lovebirds to whisper sweet nothings into each others' ears at our table, and proceeded to the dance floor, where I rocked out like there was no tomorrow. From my new vantage point, I discovered that Ray wasn't the only impressive member of the group. The bass player rocked the theremin like I've never seen: on several occasions he swooped his hand towards the instrument with such intensity that I was sure he was going to smack the thing off its perch. Such catastrophe was averted by mere centimeters. The drummer seemed possessed, barely saying a word the whole set, instead gazing transfixedly at his drums/the floor.

Sadly, the set ended too quickly for my liking, and the EP that the band was selling after the show, which, as far as I could gather is their only release to date, fails to capture the intensity that the band had displayed in their live show. This is not to say that the EP is worthless: the first track, “Plea Bargain,” is catchy, and representative sampling of the band's work.

The show ended, and I proceeded to execute a skillful cockblock, ensuring that my two friends would be going home separately (without going too much into details, let's just say that a little scare-mongering concerning construction on selected subway lines can go a long way). But all you hopeless romantics out there needn't worry! They hooked up again a few nights later. On a happy note for me, though, to compensate for the seizure of this woman from me, my friend offered to supply me with several packs of cigarettes. In the end, everyone won!

So, in conclusion, if you want to see a live act good enough to make you forget that your friend is a lecherous douche bag, see Beat the Devil. They, according to their super cool website, are heading out to Vegas for a time, but don't worry. They'll be back.