When you’re little, you can climb the living room furniture, throw caution in the shitter, and hurl yourself bum-first onto the carpet without getting hurt badly enough to care, or just not enough to cancel the excitement of whatever imagined scenario inspired the stunt. In your head, maybe you’re a pilot jettisoned from a malfunctioning X-wing, maybe you’re a pro wrestler delivering an elbow drop of doom, or maybe you’re pretending to be the President of The United States when the President has to jump off a chair for some reason. Then you get older, and you can’t do that anymore because society frowns upon rambunctiousness and medical bills can get expensive.
But what if each individual human comes into existence hardwired with an intrinsic compulsion to jump off of shit? If so, that explains the heapin’ pile of berserker that overtook Great Scott last night when The Dillinger Escape Plan swung in.
While a malfunctioning pinball machine of humanity obstructed my view throughout much of the sold-out performance, I’m fairly certain individuals both affiliated and unaffiliated with the band dove off the stage, amplifiers, and each other at various intervals. Guitarist Ben Weinman punctured the ceiling with his skull (though not the ceiling tile itself, which he moved aside, out of harm’s way, beforehand; see featured photo). Screamer Greg Puciato belted out the final number whilst swinging upside-down from the light fixture. Astoundingly, Dillinger managed these feats without missing a beat or causing any obvious damage to themselves or the venue. Weinman’s been at this since 1997, so his outfit’s racked up a lot of collective wisdom regarding how few fucks they can get away with giving.
In this instance, Dillinger’s longevity — specifically, their dwindling amount — added an enhanced sense of urgency to a set that would’ve felt pretty damn urgent on its own. Last week, Weinman told Noisey that his band plan to close up shop once they finish touring out Dissociation — full-length number six, due in October. For the diehards in attendance, this was both a super rare opportunity to see Dillinger in a room far, far smaller than the Worcester Palladium-size joints to which they are accustomed, and one of the final chances to see them at all.
Stray observations: Puciato could have a second career as Axe body spray’s most confrontational spokesman after Dillinger wraps, ‘cos that dude is jacked. Bassist Liam Wilson looks like Luke Harper and Derek Smalls merged into a single being. During “Farewell, Mona Lisa,” I watched civilization’s most conscientious stage-diver make absolute sure he wasn’t getting in the band’s way, and scan for a spot of crowd dense enough to easily keep him afloat, before making the plunge. Lots of people got very, very sweaty at this show. If you noticed any conspicuously sweaty people walking around Allston sometime in the ballpark of midnight, they were totally at this thing, I betcha. Or maybe at the Juliette Lewis show up the street at Brighton Music Hall. But probably it was Dillinger.
Earlier in the evening, Boston’s Lunglust didn’t warm up the crowd, so much as shoved their heads into microwaves, and radiated them until they exploded like so many baked potatoes. Jeff Sykes — who shares a hairstyle sensibility with Zack de la Rocha, it should be noted — delivered a prolonged apoplectic belch festering under a skyscraper of distortion as it collapsed.
Follow Barry Thompson on Twitter @barelytomson.