James Mejia

Holy Fuck “Royal Gregory”

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With a name this audacious, Holy Fuck has an obligation to deliver something worth exclaiming about. At Spaceland on this Saturday night, the band had its work cut out for it. The room reached capacity, but apparently many attendees were there to see opener A Place to Bury Strangers, after which the crowd thinned a bit. That buzzed-about Brooklyn trio unleashed an industrial-punk onslaught, with bass throbs and kick-drum bursts threatening to ruin ears and stop hearts, all while shrouded in fog and strobe. A tough act to follow, no doubt. Holy Fuck took the stage with a decidedly less theatrical air, but once the Toronto foursome got rolling, it proved to be the more musically captivating act. The band — a drummer, a bass player and two guys fidgeting with various keyboards, pedals and unidentified gizmos — locked into tight, engaging grooves. Some were hypnotic like krautrock, some bounced like hip-hop, some were thunderous as metal. The energetic ensemble mostly stuck to instrumental jamming but occasionally added some distorted, robotic vocals. Visually, the frenzied-yet-precise drumming was the standout. The majority of the audience moved along in modest fashion, while one nut in the corner was flailing every which way. After one song, someone in the crowd predictably screamed, “Holy Fuck!” But it sounded like he really meant it.

— Thomas McMahon