Fishbone holds mass in Raleigh, proves existence of God

Some bands give concerts. Fishbone holds mass.

My critical instincts are telling me to stop there. In fact, for whom am I writing this review? Certainly not for those of you who attended Friday night's Fishbone concert. You folks undoubtedly do not need me to confirm the gratification of your experience. I can't even say I'm writing for those of you who missed the Raleigh concert. Fishbone isn't coming back to the Triangle anytime soon; if you missed them I can do no more than feel sorry for you.

All said and done, however, I suppose it's worth the effort to recount the comings and goings of the world's greatest band (objectivity has no place in this review).

Let me start, though, with where I began. Some bands give concerts. Fishbone holds mass.

Fishbone holds mass because there is something inherently religious, inherently devotional about their stage performance. They regularly present themselves in the catholic cloth of their subculture. They are freaks of the punk, ska, funk and hip-hop worlds. Lead singer Angelo Moore emerges from backstage with a black hat, black shirt, black pants, white suspenders, a clear crystal cane and red fighter pilot goggles. Drummer Fish, shirtless and tattooed, drums with his back to the crowd. Various others, Kendall, Norwood, Walter, etc. enter with instruments and business-like stares; their work is serious and spiritual. Certainly it is not for the weak of heart or mind.

Four songs later ("The Warmth of Your Breath," "If I Were A...I'd," "Pressure" and "Sunless Saturday"), I have abandoned my initial insecurities and self-consciousness about the average Fishbone crowd. Seven men so committed to a radically black musical project playing for the likes of churly slam-dancing white suburbanites always seems problematic. But, as usual, the priests and the congregation bridge the gap; Fishbone identifies with the stale existentialism of suburban life (they've actually been there) and most of the audience reserves a passion and understanding for Fishbone that just isn't there for Rollins, Butthole Surfers, even the Chili Peppers. There is a mutual affection. The perennially popular "Fishbone: Fuck Racism" T-shirts are worn with some degree of genuine political interest and love.

Four more songs later ("No Fear," "Black Flowers," "They All Have Abandoned Their Hopes" and "Unyielding Conditioning"), I am stunned, stupefied and perhaps somewhat confused. Fishbone is holding mass, to be sure, but it feels much like a death mass.

Most of the show's songs have emerged from the band's most recent album, Give a Monkey a Brain and He'll Swear He's the Center of the Universe. I would argue that the album and the first half of the concert are the constructs of a band repeatedly exposed to industry racism and a general public not entirely sympathetic to their musical and political projects. And, of course, if and when Fishbone hits the big time, they will undoubtedly be referred to as "That new band from L.A. You know, those black guys with mohawks?" Angelo, normally a performer with superhuman strength and energy, placidly struts around the stage, twirling his cane and singing with apocalyptic fervor. The pitch blackness of "Black Flowers" is like a fire and brimstone sermon, hitting a crescendo that left a slam-dancing crowd silent and motionless.