Ponderosa stomp: James Johnson of Wilderness. All photos by Lisa Weiss.
By Michelle Broder Van Dyke
Up above the still of a serene California night, a dry thunderstorm is brewing. Like the tom-heavy drum patterns of Wilderness’ William Goode and the angular guitar lines of Colin McCann, the dry lightning splits from the sky striking down on Earth, igniting wildfires. The blaze destroys in a gradual and shapeless but fierce trail that builds as James Johnson’s howls brew from the bottom of his belly, filling his throat before rising and bursting forth like a clairvoyant issuing forth the voices of the dead, while Brian Gossman sustains the flames with long-held bass notes.
Or at least that’s what I imagined as I watched Wilderness perform at Bottom of the Hill on Thursday, Dec. 11. Their distinct post-punk sound builds on echoes that resound throughout the space, stirring the vibrations until trance-like they seep into your pores and take over, completely hypnotizing you. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the audience began speaking in tongues.
