I remember seeing Protomartyr for the first time; it was at High Noon Saloon in Madison. The bar was largely cleared out of the usual furnishings, making room for the full house that packed the building. In front of that crowd, Protomartyr was digging through a few tracks from Under Color of Official Right, the 2014 release that threw them on tour with Cloud Nothings, the headliner that night.
On stage, singer Joe Casey twirled a glass of something in his hand. I’m not sure what it was, but let’s just say it was cognac; he certainly carried himself as a cognac man. Casey was dressed corporate casual, his usual blazer draped over his shoulder as he crooned into the microphone. While he sang, rigid, the rest of the band roared, growling guitars and walloping basslines moving the audience and their partners alike. Only Casey stood tall, cognac in hand.
The Agent Intellect, Protomartyr’s new album, matches that image. There are plenty of loud, aggressive guitars and rhythms pummeling throughout, but Casey remains deadpan and steady, calling out to listeners in his best bad-side-of-Sinatra impression. So when the songs sound peaceful, such as “I Forgive You” and its waterfall chords, there’s plenty of unsettling drawl to throw your mind for a loop.
That contrast is Protomartyr’s charm. Here, Casey’s almost defeatist growl gives Protomartyr its deceptive tone, a knowing apathy. It’s the kind a movie detective takes at the end of his case, wisdom skewed by the masculine front that assumes a rigid appearance with cognac in hand. Yet there’s a feeling that it is just a front, that the cognac twirls with pain as Casey pontificates in “Pontiac 87” and groans in “Uncle Mother’s.”
But if Casey’s croon is film noir, the rest of Protomartyr is a 1970s horror film. Greg Ahee’s guitar pumps between sharpened chase scenes and restrained suspense, with crushing power chords and swampy riffs. Drummer Alex Leonard provides the pulse, one that explodes in the chase and skips a beat when in hiding. Bassist Scott Davison thumps out the monster’s march, carrying the B-movie bloodlust through the music.
When these mix with Casey’s droned paranoia, a potent brew forms. Protomartyr might be post-punk’s scariest band, one whose sense of horror almost feels natural. Like all B-movie slashers, there are moments that fall flat on the tension, but there are also moments that rip apart any peaceful resolution. On “Why Does it Shake?,” Casey’s voice is lost in faded loops as the rest of the band rips out a feedback assault and tight groove. The loops continue to creep in, reminding you that you’re not alone among those piercing guitars and rumbling rhythms.
It’s an image that reminds me of the second time I saw Protomartyr live. It was the same club, on the same stage, opening for the same band. Protomartyr roared between its scared gallops, nightmare guitar-rock dreamscapes and grooving drums. In front stood Casey, cognac in hand as he roared into the microphone. Behind him a film was projected onto a screen, showing a puppet alien jumping between teenagers at a 1980s prom night. As Casey’s croon turned to a drunkard’s stream-of-conscious, feedback growled over him. The video snapped off, just as the puppet alien looked to make its next kill.