Void are one of those bands whose reputation thrives on scarcity. Up till now, this early-1980s D.C.-area hardcore quartet's entire discography (aside from a few compilation tracks) could be heard in under 16 minutes-- and not even on a proper full-length but a split LP, shared with the equally obscure Faith.
There's something about that split, though. Thanks to devoted bloggers and high-profile superfans like Damian Abraham and Matt Korvette (of Fucked Up and Pissed Jeans, respectively), hardcore has become something of a scholarly discipline in recent years, and few records are more revered in that DIY academia than 1982's so-called Faith/Void. Drummer Aesop Dekker (Agalloch, ex-Ludicra) quipped, "Faith v. Void (1982), was a landmark decision of the United States Supreme Court that overturned mediocrity in hardcore splits." Sam McPheeters (Born Against, Men's Recovery Project, and more) dubbed it one of "the best records of the 20th century." And none other than Bill "Smog" Callahan named a song after the damn thing ("Faith/Void," from 2009's Sometimes I Wish I Were an Eagle). "It's one of my favorite records," he told Impose, "especially the Void side."
There's no denying the bottled-lightning brilliance of said side-- a sputtering, cacophonous masterpiece, the unhinged id to the comparatively orderly ego of fellow Washingtonians Minor Threat-- but when considering its sterling reputation, you have to factor in its singularity. Underground obsessives love not just the music, but also the idea that Void made one perfect half of one record and that's pretty much it. (That might be why you don't hear too much about Potion for Bad Dreams, the never-released but widely fileshared LP that Void cut for Touch and Go after the Faith split.)
So in issuing Sessions 1981-83, a compilation of demos and rarities spanning Void's brief career (except for two outtakes from the split itself and two 1983 live tracks, everything here predates Faith/Void), is Dischord downgrading the band's priceless cachet? In one sense, maybe so, since these sides humanize Void. Listening to the initial 30 of the comp's 34 tracks, sourced from the quartet's first two studio visits in November and December of 1981, you quickly realize that Void's members weren't unsocialized head cases who managed to focus long enough only to record 12 exquisitely fucked-up songs. On the contrary, vocalist John Weiffenbach, guitarist Bubba Dupree, bassist Chris Stover, and drummer Sean Finnegan (sadly deceased as of 2008), were angry, sometimes goofy suburban kids from Columbia, Md., playing hard, writing prolifically, and steadily developing the confidence to embrace pure, howling chaos-- not so different, in other words, from all the other high-school-aged architects of hardcore across the U.S. The majority of Sessions 1981-83 doesn't transcend its genre the way Void's contribution to Faith/Void does, but it does provide enlightening context for that deservedly obsessed-over release.
Just as importantly, this stuff is good, snotty fun. Void's bread and butter was the turbo-speed rant, and the November '81 recordings here feature many prime examples, like the self-explanatory "Suburbs Suck", "Annoyed", and "Don't Wanna Be Like You", which last 38, 28, and 49 seconds, respectively. These songs may represent rock's lowest common denominator-- a pair of buzzsaw riffs, a coming-off-the-rails oompah beat, and a litany of adolescent gripes-- but Void's disaffection is the kind you can't fake, the definition of troubled teenhood.
Unlike Minor Threat's Ian MacKaye, whose cogent statements clued you in to a sharp political mind, Weiffenbach's raw-nerve howl often gave voice to straight-up nihilism; witness "War Hero" (which would later appear on Faith/Void), with its "I want to die… in a war!" refrain. But just when you think you have Void pegged as one-note rageaholics, they surprise you with a bit of poignant social commentary ("Black, Jewish, and Poor", where Weiffenbach's slurred, sneering voice sounds like the blueprint for Wavves' Nathan Williams) or charming self-satire ("Please Give Us a Chance", which disclaims, "Just because Chris sucks shit on bass/ Just because Sean can't keep up a beat/ Just because Bubba doesn't know any chords/ Just because I don't know my words…"). Void shouldn't have been so hard on themselves: As primitive as this material is, much of it is unshakably catchy, especially "Organized Sports" and "My Rules" (both re-recorded for the split), which feature anthemic choruses driven by Dupree's metallic midtempo crunch.
Even as the 1981-model Void were learning how to write effectively in the still-nascent hardcore mode, they were also beginning to deconstruct the form. Right from the beginning, the band wantonly tested the limits of what a song could be. Consider "Draft Me Please", which moves from a textbook speed-punk verse into a weird pile-up of a chorus; here, Dupree peels off a snarling phrase, and Finnegan answers with a series of impressionistic taps, abandoning the beat in the process. For a few frantic seconds, the whole band jettisons the idea of tempo, to intoxicating effect.
These chaotic episodes would become more and more pronounced, until they were as much a part of Void's compositional style as the more intelligible material. The most valuable aspect of Sessions 1981-83 is how it illustrates this steady march toward violent abstraction, especially in Dupree's playing. As wild as his bandmates were, the half-black, half-Filipino guitarist was a maniac of a different order, the X-factor that gave Void a whiff of dangerous insanity. (Dave Grohl, an avowed Void fan, was among those taking note; he tapped Dupree for a frenetic cameo on his 2004 Probot record.)
The three versions of "Dehumanized" here-- one apiece from November and December of '81, and a June 1982 outtake from the session that yielded Void's contributions to Faith/Void-- tell the story plainly. Listening to them in succession, you hear Dupree's "Eureka!" awakening to the aesthetic potential of noise. On the first attempt, he plays the dutiful riff machine, clearly stating the song's start-stop verse motif and chugging, downstroked chorus. During the much faster December take, he fills the gaps in the first verse with bursts of feedback; by verse two, he's in full-on assault mode, scraping out tortured growls and squeals that make Black Flag's Greg Ginn, hardcore's most notorious six-string sicko, sound cautious by comparison. The final "Dehumanized" is a glorious mess, with Dupree alternating between proto-thrash attack and what sounds like a malfunctioning power saw. Weiffenbach responds with a borderline black-metal snarl, and we're finally hearing the band at its peak derangement.
Sessions 1981-83 offers one final masochistic delight: a 1983 live version of Faith/Void's concluding track, "Explode", which feels like the missing link between hardcore and ruthless modern-day noise. "Our last song," Weiffenbach blankly announces, and Stover launches into a manic cyclical bass riff. Dupree answers with a gradually accelerating throb; Weiffenbach lets out a tortured yowl; and suddenly the full band whooshes in. The aural dogpile that follows out-extremes even the hallowed split LP. It bears little resemblance to punk rock, or any sort of song-based soundmaking; instead, it's a mini exorcism that places Void in the illustrious lineage of amplified din, stretching from Jimi Hendrix up through Keiji Haino and Prurient. Appropriately, it's Dupree we hear last, conjuring spiky, alien sound shapes.
If the rest of Sessions 1981-83 serves as a entertaining and educational scrapbook, this track reminds you why, three decades on, Void are still spoken of in hushed tones. Much like John Coltrane toward the end of his life, this band, near the conclusion of its own too-short existence, pierced the veil separating its musical style from an ultimate, unbound-by-genre catharsis. Not bad for a couple of pissed-off suburban kids.
