Issue No. 3

Roullette

A year ago a cassette tape found its way to my door. I had been flyering for my kickoff party and about an hour after I returned I found a brown envelope with a cassette, some pictures and note. The note was from Chante Brown, lead singer of Roullette asking me to check out a recording of a recent party gig. I dug what I heard: Loud, angry, straightforward metal. Riffs and growling, no gimmicks, no pretensions. It was raw and needed work but I knew this was an act I should follow. It's a year later and MagnaPhone has taken in a couple of Roullette gigs, with two very different persepectives.

Roullette: Part 1: October 20, 2004
The Manhattan Grill
Greg Trout

It gets extra dismal when it rains over by the Manhattan grill on 2nd and Girard. The sky takes on an inky blackness that hangs like uncirculated smoke, the El trestle seems to grow to monolithic heights watching and foreboding over the bars, take out joints and denizens of the night below. It was through this atmosphere we traveled Thursday night to witness the sonic assault of Roullette.

There was a sparse yet typical crowd at the Manhattan. Since they've been hosting metal hardcore shows on a nearly nightly basis they seem to have developed a regular crowd of industrial strength Goths, bikers of all shapes, sizes and colors, late night drinkers still in their business suits, and night owl book-intellectuals. It's a cool scene and still pretty underground in its little pocket down on Girard.

As we sat on the couch watching Roullette set up, the loudspeaker was playing the best of the underground past, Agnostic Front, Dead Kennedys, Specials etc, reminding me of the roots and history a band like Roullette is keeping alive. That tradition of playing to sparse crowds in a small spot to devoted followers, usually right before success and adulation is heaped up a group, the kind I believe Roullette is about to experience.

An overhead video of skateboarding faded to an end in the lounge and the five-headed hydra that is Roullette took shape. Launching into a musical battering that set every head banging Roullette spent the next hour doing what they do best: burning with intensity. Front woman Chante Brown is a powerhouse of screeches and bellows, her slight figure commanding the stage like someone four times her size, her animal magnetism grabbing listeners by the scruff of the neck and pulling them in. pushing the proceedings forward and within are the slithering backbone of Nichole Johnson's bass and X's drums encasing and enthralling the twin guitar onslaught of John Webb and Z. The crowd looked as though a turbine had just been turned on and pointed at their heads: blown away, roused and not sure what hit them.

I mentioned the sky earlier because it mirrors Roullette's message and sound. Roullette is the sound of struggle, of gritted teeth, the sound of pushing yourself up through the grit and grime and refusing to take any more.

These heavy hitters are getting more and more play, more gigs and more exposure. Keep an eye on them - although soon they will be everywhere and then you'll have no choice.

Roullette Part 2: Sunday, April 24, 2005
The Pontiac Grille
Stephen Bounds

Sunday was a dangerous day, the way a beautiful spring day can be. I'm writing this almost a week later because I've had some time to rest and my ears have mostly healed. I think the first thing I remember is a siren and then a crash. Most car accidents happen close to home, and this one was right outside my door. I had just gotten the rental car that afternoon, a beautiful silver Elantra. I started east on Green from where I was parked when I heard the siren. I cannot understand the cruelty of time and its perpetually forward motion. Ugly incidents become stretched out, and remembered as though we could have somehow prevented it, or that maybe we pressed down the accelerator intentionally to feed into a deeper curiosity to see how it would all pan out if we did. The fact I was wearing my seatbelt might be why I am typing this at home, but it did not prevent the fierce forward whip against the wheel when the squad car struck. We must have both spun in opposite directions because the next thing I remember is the way both our cars ended up "parked" against the iron poles at each side of the northeast corner, facing away from each other. "Are you alright?" I heard the officer say. I had already opened my door and fallen to my knees. My face was burning, my legs were trembling and my shoulders ached. The familiar smell of rubber and antifreeze told me I was going to be filling out some forms. All I could do was put both my hands on the ground. Was he going to shoot me? Was I going to be arrested? What happened next, and for the rest of the afternoon, is personal and confusing, and too painful to write here, but I will say that I made it to the Pontiac Grille in a cab that evening because I am a professional.

My partner and I paid the five dollars and made it inside. The first act was "Call the Paramedics." That is not a joke. The singer said they're from New York City and I believed him, because who am I to question a burly man with a spiked Mohawk who has the giant word "DRUNK" tattooed across his abdomen? This was beer swilling angry punk rock at its craziest. People got hurt, and there was a lot of blood. Who cares about the music? It was good, loud, fast, and punctuated.

Lorenzo's across the street is delicious. Ask for the salmon - I dare you. We stepped back inside to catch the last two electrifying songs from Will Powerless, and then we waited for Roulette. Everyone in Roulette is almost too good-looking to be playing death metal, which only meant they played it dangerously. Broken glass and ice was everywhere on the floor, and young men too huge to be dancing were hurling themselves around the tiny upstairs venue. I moved in close for some pictures and barricaded myself behind a chair and a support beam for some sense of security. Roulette's songs aren't just about danger; they're about the dangers involved in genuine social concerns. Put this together with beauty and the gut-level force of thrash punk that kicks into screaming overdrive and you've got high danger. This is the kind of thing I want to see when I walk into a bar.