Henry Barnes is enough of a misfit that, according to him anyway, his one-night stand in Brooklyn last August was his first time in New York City. Taking the stage, he was a big man with a hermit’s wild grey beard and burnt-out eyes, who, when audible, spoke with a gentle, high-pitched voice-- mostly against the war. His performance was a disaster: handmade instruments, toys, and noiseboxes broke, or didn’t; all anyone could hear was furious, high-pitched squealing. By the time he and his cohort had finished, they’d pretty much cleared the loft, banishing formerly bright-eyed kids back to their PBR on the porch outside. If there was ever a left-coast soul who didn’t belong in New York’s city limits, it was this dude.
Barnes builds instruments for a living in Claremont, Calif., and Amps for Christ grew in part out of his lifelong interest in electronics and vintage gear. That he played in two of the most depressive acts of the last decade-- Man Is the Bastard and Bastard Noise-- might’ve helped spawn AFC as well: nothing like twee Scottish dirges to counteract a deep hatred of the species. As artfully weird as those two bands, Amps for Christ lasted by diversifying where Barnes' old bands had zoned into one-track, obsessive cultivation of a very singular and brooding sound-- AFC’s own only constant, over the past 10 years, has been Barnes’ handcrafted sound.
Not to say that Amps for Christ weren’t a great noise band-- Thorny Path-era in particular, they were-- and though they do it less and less, still are. Bastard dudes Nelson and Wood are still around, for one thing, and guest on “I Hate This Dumpster”, which is less BN cold and more deeply wooden, vacuum-tube scree-- beneath the power‘tronics, Barnes’ tubes bump low and even tones, to keep the fire lit. Later Hartford, of Noise Nomads, does his best Eric Wood impression on “The Crossing”, bellowing and howling like the master himself, down to the signature sound of thunderclaps and static.
But Amps for Christ are mostly great cuz, though the instruments don’t always work, they’re formally masterful. At this point you could compile a best-of comprised entirely of fuzzy paeans to Scotland, just from the last three albums-- let's say the two versions of “Scotland the Brave” and “She’s With Me” from The Oak in the Ashes, the two takes of “Old Lang Syne” and “Prince Charlie Stuart” from The People At Large, and now yet another “Scotland the Brave”, plus “Sweet Dove”, from Every Eleven Seconds-- or one, equally rich, of the sitaresque Eastern stuff. The spoken word (the new one contains the usual three-or-so poems) well, that’s for cultists, completists, and people who can vibe to Barnes’ high-toned, old-man voice and beat poetics.
Every Eleven Seconds is, for neither better nor worse, the most dark and downtrodden of the last three-- more noise, less vocals, less tracks-- and this probably relates to Barnes’ well-documented horror with our President and his various wars, real and imagined. But Eleven Seconds also has moments as incandescent and joyful as parting clouds. “Cock o’ the North” is another beautiful line-dancing hobbit song, all flowing skirts, springtime, and hay; the track leads perfectly into the more broken-down, shaken balladry of “Out on the Moon”. Vintage AFC, it’s just guys with beards on the porch in the afternoon, getting slowly drunk, mad, and profound.
