January 15, 2003

CAESURA TAKE THEIR name from what Webster's defines as "a break in the flow of sound in a verse; a pause marking a rhythmic point of division in a melody," and the band can indeed be counted on for a complex and satisfying display of brawny art rock, full of all the dramatic pauses and abrupt shifts in dynamics their moniker implies.

They will, in fact, rock you till your toes curl. Watching them open for Portland's 31 Knots and Check Engine (a Chicago outfit derived from Sweep the Leg Johnny) at Bottom of the Hill Jan. 8, one couldn't help wondering why these San Francisco favorites didn't have a headlining gig of their own.

Playing around town since 1998, Caesura are part of a bumper crop of arty/noisy Bay Area/NorCal rock bands that have come up in the past few years – outfits like Lower 48, Greenlight the Bombers, and Replicator. Any attempt to genrefy this sound will immediately fail, of course, because genres are stupid and will back your ass into a corner more often than not. But there are certain elements that do recur: a relative lack of traditional guitar solos and plenty of feedback, droning sustains, repeating phrases, show-offy fretwork, quirky time signatures, bombastic stylistic left turns, squalling noise breaks, and from-the-gut vocals. It ain't hardcore, math rock, metal, emo, indie, or punk. It's arty, it's noisy, it rocks.

In that vein, Caesura's 2002 CD More Specific, Less Pacific (Fifty-Four Forty or Fight!) really is a great record, showcasing the fine musicianship and compositional skills of guitarist Evan Rehill, bassist Brad Purvis, and drummer Mike Shoun. Onstage at the Bottom of the Hill, at their first live show since September, the band debuted new music that was, in Shoun's words, more "fractured and damaged" than their previous material. It was also more sprawling and complex – the band's roughly 45-minute set featured multipart epics full of discord, melody, restraint, and howling, headbanging abandon.

With his pants hiked up above his hips and sporting an eye patch, Rehill spent much of the show cavorting about in slo-mo, sleazy spasms, legs splayed, wriggling a cunnilingual tongue. Generally all twitchy and pelvic, he played the exhibitionist to Purvis's stone-faced minimalist. The pair's four- and six-string interplay was intricate and dynamic, and Shoun's imaginative drumming propelled it all to another level, counterbalancing the drone, feedback, and frippery with huge, exploratory free jazz breaks and nuanced decrescendos. Previous performances might have been much louder overall, but Caesura's latest direction diverges from strict noise rock and bellowing vocals. They're allowing their music more room to breathe, more space to stretch out.