Show Notes: “That guy was poetry in motion…” — Helmet at Underground Arts, 3/22/25
Standing at the foot of the stage last night at Underground Arts, surrounded by my 90s-era peers, I posted the following on social media:
On June 21st, 1994, Helmet—then the combined work of guitarist/vocalist Page Hamilton, bassist Henry Bogdan, drummer John Stanier, and newly acquired guitarist Rob Echeverria—released their third LP, Betty, which followed the success of the band’s major label debut, 1992’s Meantime. As Helmet were one of many peripheral bands deemed “alternative” by the music industry majors, all of whom were high on post-Nirvana fumes and banking on a similar payday, the band remains a significant presence within the early 90s Alt-rock flood and Betty, an album that followed up their breakthrough record with no lack of love from fans, stands as a noise rock hallmark.
In 2024, Betty turned 30, a milestone that prompted Page Hamilton, the only constant in Helmet’s revolving line-up, to tour the album and play it live in its entirety. I thankfully had the opportunity to see Helmet twice when they toured for Betty in ‘94, so I granted myself permission to indulge in nostalgia for the evening.
Opening the gig were the sturdy Philly rock quintet Effusion 35, currently promoting their new album, Eviction. As a primer for the evening, Effusion 35 exhibited the perfect dose of riff-generation and heft, a good mix of metallic rock and punk-infused grit. The band capped off their set with an excellent rendition of David Bowie’s “Moonage Daydream,” the reverential high palpable while the band exited the stage.
Following were the Norwegian stoner-laden rock band, Slomosa, whose immersive set put a veritable dent in the crowd. The band emitted the sort of leveling and ethereal brawn that could sonically crush a small animal or at least render a set of ears completely inoperable. Crowd response was overwhelmingly positive, vocalist/guitarist Benjamin Berdous’s mid-song banter warm and receptive with visible gratitude shown following every round of well-earned applause.
Slomosa were an impressive opener and I’d be shocked if they weren’t headlining shows in the States very soon.
Helmet—Hamilton, guitarist Dan Beeman, bassist David Case, and drummer Kyle Stevenson—were in the process of ripping through every track of Betty uninterrupted before a stage diver momentarily fucked everything up and threw off the momentum, setting off a comedy of errors featuring felled microphones and tangled cables.
The program was simple: perform the album and then pause the set to talk to the audience and play some other crowd pleasers. During a performance of “Rollo,” there was a sudden forward-moving surge in the crowd and an aspiring diver rode the wave.
It’s not often that I see a band abruptly stop performing due a diver failing to gauge his impact, the trajectory of his landing pushing over Case’s mic into Hamilton’s dual mic set-up just before he was supposed to begin singing. The diver tried to straighten things out, making some meager attempt at correcting his miscalculation by righting one of the mic stands, though to no avail. Very quickly, and you could read futility on his face, the diver realized he was making things worse and disappeared back into the crowd. Hamilton, to his credit, contained his irritation pretty well as the tech hastily tried to uncoil the cables and get the mics working.
Once technical difficulties were handled, some ass chewing was had. “Way to go, dumb fuck!” was Hamilton’s response. “Rollo” was restarted and no further interruptions were had.
What was had was a great time. Hamilton and Co.’s otherwise seamless performance of Betty, noting some variations on vocal cues, was dense, exact, and immeasurably gratifying. Tracks like “I Know,” “Biscuits For Smut,” and “Milquetoast” garnered the expected crowd response, hoots, hollers, and claps from those of in remembrance mode, retracing in our minds three decades back to when those songs first met our ears and sketched indelible patterns into our gray matter. Ten-tons of kick drum, muck-addled low end, and start-stop chops: the first hour went by too quickly. Hamilton performed the album’s closer, “Sam Hell,” and then crowd interaction began:
“Thank you very much! That was Betty!” Hamilton declared to a cheering crowd. “Almost interruption free.” In acknowledgment of the diver mishap, Hamilton, now seemingly amused, cast some friendly shade:
“Grace! Poetry. That guy was poetry in motion.” But, ultimately, all was well, “It’s alright, dude. Shit happens, right?”
A round of thanks for the supporting acts followed along with introductions of his own band members. As a dedication to a friend of Hamilton’s, who’d driven from Pittsburgh to see the show, Helmet performed “He Feels Bad” from Meantime, starting off the second set list.
Inasmuch as seeing Betty performed was the evening’s hook, the entire second half of the set was my favorite part of the show. While Meantime was tapped for material quite a bit—“Unsung,” “Better,” “Iron Head,” “Give It” (a personal fave that I was elated to hear)—1997’s Aftertaste was referenced as well via “Birth Defect” and the uptempo “Harmless,” and a crowd request for “Just Another Victim” from the Judgment Night soundtrack was granted. Engagement persisted between songs with a funny origin story about the Betty B-side “Pariah” and some friendly ribbing in the form of congratulations for the Eagles’ win in the Super Bowl, despite Hamilton’s disdain for the team.
The evening ended with “In The Meantime,” its substantive, clamorous intro leading into its single-note pulse and off-kilter metronomic rhythm, a solid choice to finish the event.
I hit up the merch booths and was on the road maybe 15 minutes later, my feet grateful to be relieved of standing in the same spot for four-plus hours.
Sincerely,
Letters From A Tapehead
