Back When. The first time I heard the name, the speaker did not
enunciate clearly, and I thought he said "Back Wind," which I took to
mean a poot.
I now know that, in a way, Back When's bi-axe-ial assault, featuring
the merciless weedeluh of both the enigmatically abbreviated J.
Michael Mickeliunas and the swarthy, h-less Jonathan of Czech-American
descent whose nearly vowel-less last name is Tvrdik, bears an
unmistakable resemblance to a gaseous explosion; though it is more
akin to solar wind than gastrointestinal tract expulsion.
To extend the metaphor into a sort of conceit, there is also the
vibratory surge of Back When's rhythmic underpinnings – the
four-stringed sabre wielded by one Chris "Never Trust a Man with Two
First Names, Even when the Second Name is Disguised Through the
Employment of an Extra E" Kelley and the
snare-ride-tom-snare-ride-tom-tom-tom-tom combination of tasteful
brutality employed by Aaron Broveak, who is too bearded, surly, and
intimidating these days to respond to his youthful moniker,
"Tabletop." Matched in the natural world perhaps only by the shifting
of techtonic plates, there are but two words to describe the combined,
otherworldly rumblings emitted by this pair of rhythempresarios. Those
two words: Brown Note.
Yes, it is true that Back When can be soothing, lulling you into your
safe space of complacent prettiness. But, it is not without ulterior
motive. Unified, these men liberate flesh from muscle mass, tendons,
and bones. Tearing asymmetrical, post-ironic hairdos from hordes of
mortified, gripping follicles. Combusting synthetic, fiber-constructed
leg warmers and their mysterious counterparts that are like stirrup
pants for the forearms. Bubbling eyeliner from lids through sheer
heat. Peeling back all of that which binds us to this mortality,
leaving us naked, more pure beings, sentient only in the most basic
firing of synapses and the exposed roots of nerves. Charred.
Quivering. Ashy. Hairdressers beware. Prostrate yourselves before
the Back When.
-Christina Harding, 2007