Brian Jonestown Massacre Show Review

words and photos by Sebastian Muniz-Massa

Is it F***ed Up to Call A Grown Man “Well Behaved”?

1996, The Viper Room, Los Angeles, California; an industry showcase and a moment for the Brian Jonestown Massacre band to break into the mainstream and secure themselves a record deal that would catapult them into the limelight. What could have been a catalyzing moment for the band’s success instead resulted in an onstage brawl between their leading man, Anton Newcombe, and what seemed to be the rest of his ensemble. The scrap was caught on camera and became an infamous moment, eternalized in the 2004 music documentary Dig!. Needless to say, the showcase did not end in a million-dollar record deal. Fast forward 27 years through more antics and band drama, BJM is once again on tour – they never really stopped, despite their apparent differences – this time for their 2023 Australian tour. During the Melbourne leg of the tour, it all came to a head when yet another on-stage rumble broke out between Newcombe and his Guitarist Ryan Kreidt. 

Anton Newcombe and The Brian Jonestown Massacre’s revolving cast of musicians are no strangers to very public and volatile disagreements. I am giving you a history of the band’s working relationships to set the tone for my review of BJM’s November 4th show at SLO Brew Rock in San Luis Obispo, presented by (((folkYEAH!))). As a very junior correspondent for KCSB’s blog, my mind could only focus on what might go wrong, as I made the hour-and-a-half trip north to the venue. At first, I worried about my press pass and whether I’d make it into the venue. Next came the general anxieties around my capability as a photographer. Most of all, though, I wondered if I’d be the subject of Newcombe’s outward verbal frustrations. During our pre show exchanges with the promoters, I was given a clear set of rules: no flash, first three songs only, stand and shoot from this angle. If I deviate from the guidelines, would I be the source of Newcombe’s agitations? Would I set the BJM time bomb off? 

When I arrived at the venue, I was greeted by a friendly brewery staff. I let the hostess know I was here to photograph the concert. She let me know it was a different crew handling the concert logistics. I ordered my drink and thanked her for pointing me in the right direction. Eventually, I found the right people, and after some deliberation about my name being on the list, they finally ushered me backstage to set up. They were sure to remind me of the rules once again: no flash, first three songs, point and shoot from this side of the stage. I waited anxiously as the crowd filled in. The venue itself was intimate yet still capable of a sizable audience. The murmurs grew louder as we approached call time and more people streamed in. I felt the energy buzzing, so I looked out at the cacophony of voices coming from the color washed faces doused in stage light. 

The opener took the stage, Nashville-based Canadian singer-songwriter Alex Nicol, along with his supporting band. He set the tone with his smooth, soft vocals and nostalgic acoustic melodies paired with a new age psychedelic sound. The folk rock band swayed the crowd with a mesmerizing groove, and the longing in Nicol’s warm voice won us over. The audience of BJM fans who had been waiting to hear heavy distortions and loud grinding riffs became enamored with the sweet, sensuous folk sound. I couldn’t help but join in swaying from my lonely spot in the camera pit with a big, pleased grin. Live music is my happy place, a habit inherited from my father. At that moment, listening to the reverb of the crying guitar and the Neil Young-esque vocals, I couldn’t help but think about how thankful I am that my dad passed down this passion. As Alex Nicol’s set went on, we, the spectators, maintained our hypnotic sway, hanging on to every warm word echoed out into the venue. 

Alex Nicol and co. closed and made their exit. The loud murmurs returned to the space, and I stood in my lonely corner, half reviewing my pictures, half calming my nerves, but I couldn’t help but listen to the conversations going on behind me. I needed a distraction from my own head, so I chose to listen in and there it was again, that infamous BJM history being told by a guy who’d probably been a fan since the band’s inception in 1993; “last time I saw them play they got into an argument mid-set. Anton will flip out on the band if they don’t play the song right”. Again, it seems that the band’s history precedes them, and my trick for easing the nerves backfired. I was right back to where I was on the car ride up, wondering about what could go wrong. Then I thought to myself, I’m here to enjoy good music, and if Anton flips out on me, well, what a story to tell. Unable to differentiate between nerves and excitement, I prepared my camera for the headliner. 

It took some time before BJM made their entrance, and I found myself awkwardly hanging around at a loss for what to do, standing alone in the camera pit. So I decided to go look for my second drink and circled around the backstage area, which was just the brewery’s cellar. While I walked around, I brushed shoulders with different BJM band members who were probably wondering how some college kid snuck past security to get in. I envied their style, maybe if I was in a well known psychedelic rock band from the 90s, I could pull off bell bottoms, cheetah print shirts, and big bushy sideburns. 

After my disappointment with the bar line, I navigated back to my position empty-handed. I turned a corner and there he was: the man, the myth, the legend, Anton Newcombe. What a moment to be so close to a legend, except for the fact that he was blocking the way back to the stage. To that point, everyone I encountered made it seem like the smallest things could set him off, and so the whole time I did my best to stay out of the way. Now was the moment of truth, and I chose to move without hesitation. I walked straight up and gave a polite ‘excuse me’, and to my surprise, or maybe not, he obliged without qualm. Maybe this guy was just a normal old white dude after all. 

Is it f***ed up of me to call a grown man well-behaved? After all the stories and all the warnings, I almost felt disappointed that there was no fisticuffs. By coincidence, before they went on, I passed Newcombe in the small backstage smoking area a few more times, then took my position in the pit. By 9 pm or so, The Brian Jonestown Massacre was lining up to take the stage, and then they began with their slow-droning maximalist sound. A classic rock base made relevant by modern distortions. Their buzzing amps swelling, every instrument coming together in grand psychedelic crescendos. Red, green, blue, and purple flood-lights illuminated the stage, contributing further to the collective trip we were all embarking on. I can see why their shows would be described as unpredictable, shifting from awesome hypnotica to Newcombe complaining about a broken reverb knob on his rented amp. Despite his minor agitation with the knob and playful chirping back and forth with the crowd, the show went on without a hitch.

They played, and they played well. Newcombe turned every so often to his bassist, Hallberg Daði Hallbergsson (yes, that’s his real name), to ensure they were on the same timing. Joel Gion did his thing on the tambourine, spanking that thing with confidence and never missing a beat. He even did a fun little trick where he threw the tambourine, getting it to catch on the microphone stand. Ricky Maymi was cool as ever, bobbing and weaving with his guitar in his hands, his greying curls flowing wildly. Collin Hegna mean-mugged his way through an awesome set, the whimsical Emil Nikolaisen manned the synth board, and Tobias Humble secured the band’s rhythm on drums. Each member of the ensemble stood in stoic fashion behind their sunglasses, with the exception of Nikolaisen, who elected not to wear sunglasses indoors. 

I took a breather in the middle of their set in search of a cigarette. A couple of the guys from the opening band came to my aid, and I chatted with them for a few minutes about their experience touring with The Brian Jonestown Massacre. What they had to say seemed to affirm my own experience, that despite the wild tales, BJM’s cast seemed like chill guys that mostly kept to their own inner circle. After letting it burn to the butt, I tossed my cigarette and returned to my post, enjoying the live version of songs I had been listening to for the last 5 years. They didn’t play my favorite song, Open Heart Surgery, however, they did play their most popular, Anemone, which drew a rise from the crowd. There’s a reason it’s their most played, it combines a funky, groovy, sinister beat that forces one to bounce along subconsciously, with the heart aching sound of a guitar spiraling into grief. A record that’s both enigmatically dark in its composition and thematically displays a jaded attitude toward love and loss. A hallmark of modern generations, signalling the song’s popularity. 

Toward the end of the set, I chose to ignore the guidelines and test the waters. I was getting bolder, moving closer toward the middle of the stage, mere inches away from these rock giants looming over me. It was worth it; they ignored my presence while I took more intimate photographs of artists at work, deep in their own musical trances. If they did notice me pointing a lens up at them from a foot away, they paid no mind, clearly in another world of focus, playing the songs to perfection -the sanctity of the concert depended on it. Their set finally came to an end about a half hour before midnight, and the musicians made their exit from the stage. Everyone except Nikolaisen, who let the feedback run and continued to fiddle with the synth board. The static tone morphed into new sounds pulsating through the air, and while some in the audience began making their exit, most stayed behind to savor the show after the show. This went on for a few minutes before he too disappeared behind the stage, and I stood there for a moment taking in the scene for just a bit longer. Then I made my way back as well, ready to part ways with the peaceful night, but not before crossing paths with Newcombe one final time. I gave my thanks for the show, “the music was beautiful, thank you”, to which Anton responded in only the most nonchalant rockstar of ways, “yeah, sure”. 

On the car ride back, I was preoccupied with my own disappointment for not staying longer and attempting to speak with the rock legend and his posse. The disappointment didn’t last, though, due to my exhaustion and my contentment with what I had accomplished. I listened to good music from one of my all-time favorite bands, a personal goal of mine. I reviewed a concert full of the consciousness-expanding sound that quelled my existential cravings, which I had set out to do. I stood witness to deafening riffs and rough distortions, vibrating alongside elegant chord progressions and nostalgic synths, melding the ’90s penchant for angst with the mind-bending curiosities of the hippie era. I was satisfied with the night and despite its anxieties, the trip I began hours before concluded with a euphoric appreciation for the art of live performance. A wonderful night with The Brian Jonestown Massacre, and certainly a show I’d see again.