GY!BE is one of those groups that’s as beloved as they are difficult to describe. The sprawling ensemble (by rock standards, anyways) counts at least ten different members, past and present, nine of whom appear on their most recent release. Their songs regularly push past the 20 minute mark, and are essentially instrumental save for the disquieting or poignant spoken word recordings they weave into their music. These touch on the apocalyptic, the incantatory, and the melancholic, painting a picture of a life on the edge, of wasteland traversal or a grief-infused psychic descent:
“When you penetrate to the most high god, you won’t believe you’re mad. You won’t believe you’ve gone insane.”
“The car’s on fire, and there’s no driver at the wheel. And the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides. And a dark wind blows.”
“We used to sleep on the beach here. Sleep overnight - they don’t do it anymore. Things change, see. They don’t sleep anymore on the beach.”
Their music sits in a unique pocket between (deep breath): late ‘90s post rock, the evocative sound paintings of Ennio Moricone, Appalachian folk and sacred harp singing, stoner and doom metal (particularly Berkeley’s Neurosis) as well as the proudly ragged grooves of Sweden’s Pärson Sound, Wagner’s sense of scale and mythic drama, the blistering hymns of Albert Ayler, the “new weird America” of No Neck Blues Band and Sunburned Hand of the Man and many, many others.
And yet they stand alone. At the time of their formation, Chicago’s Tortoise and their innumerable offshoots and affiliates loomed large in the field of instrumental rock, charting an evolution out of punk with sophisticated arrangements and a minimalistic, jazzy touch. By contrast, Godspeed was, and remains, steeped in the mossy dampness of the Canadian forests, their suites imbued from the start with the urgency of impending climate disaster, the horrors of the neoliberal war machine and the a sense of righteous alienation from the music industry and its cycles of hype. It’s no surprise that Danny Boyle used their music in “28 Days Later,” his gritty, genre-redefining zombie/pandemic horror film. Few bands articulate raging against the dying light quite like Godspeed.
Godspeed’s tracks unfold patiently. Often, a gentle musical figure will unfurl gradually, layers gracefully draping over each other with clear, unhurried intention. The drama builds as lone voices in the background mimic distant wails or map an eerily spacious landscape. The ensemble escalates with such purpose that it’s never boring; a Godspeed intro would be a standout track for any number of lesser bands. From there, they’re able to launch into some of the heaviest climaxes of our time. The “crescendo rock” boom that followed in their wake gave us a sea of bands that attempted to hit those same highs with a well-stocked pedal board and a lot of delay. Godspeed sets the standard instead with their exquisite arrangements and group chemistry. Just when you think they’ve hit the ceiling, they’re able to raise the stakes even more.
Check out “Static” from their landmark “Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas To Heaven.” Between 7:30-11:30, the track inches towards a massive release, teasing out a tense glockenspiel line which gives way to searing, overlapping cries from a pair of distortion-crunched guitars. But this is just the prelude for an even more seismic moment that comes at the just past the 16 minute mark, when their intricately interwoven strings come together in a massive freakout that stands alongside the most cathartic hardcore band’s best mosh part.
Taken as a whole, their albums are legible largely as protest music, showing a clear affinity for anarchist collectives, eco activist groups, punk squats and your local Food Not Bombs chapter. Flipping through the art for “Lift Your Skinny Fists,” you see exactly what they’re about: woodcuts of Benjamin Franklin with a skull for a face, quietly cutting off a man’s hands; black helicopters low in the sky; a sweaty punk show; an end times manifesto scrawled in Sharpee; the NJ Turnpike. It’s diaristic but fervent, and hits harder for its blend of the direct with the ephemeral. Perhaps what makes their music so resonant is the way they give voice to the particular joys and anguish of countercultural fringes, transforming anti-establishment impulses into something monumental, luminous and transcendent. Their protest comes straight from the soul, skipping sloganeering and policy critiques, instead giving voice to a wordless, yet poetic howl of raw, resplendent humanity.