I’d encountered these gentlemen before, somewhere between Pacifica and Santa Cruz. I could recognize these vagabonds anywhere.

I remember hearing Never Not Dying—a title I eventually had to clarify with the band after seeing them on several occasions. Regardless of whatever cantina, club, or questionable establishment we happened to be occupying, I was mesmerized by the range of sound just three dudes could create in a live setting.

It’s a bold move to form a thrash- and hard-rock-influenced band in a region where those genres carry considerable ancestral baggage, but the statement remains clear:

BRAINCHAMBER is here to stay—and SHOULD.

Working-man’s Bay Area thrash mixed with a tinge of progressive stoner metal only begins to scratch the surface of this auditory bliss. There’s muscle behind it, but there’s thought behind the muscle. BRAINCHAMBER doesn’t simply bludgeon an audience into submission; they give you enough strange corners, rhythmic turns, and heavy grooves to make you wonder exactly what kind of machine you’ve wandered into.

I finished my drink hastily when I noticed the drummer loading out his gear haphazardly yet methodically, as if he’d done it a thousand times before. I couldn’t help thinking that if he really had done it a thousand times, he might be playing Madison Square Garden by now.

Then again, I’m not one to judge.

With the scent of cheap whiskey on my breath, I approached the band behind the stage after their set at the SoFA Street Fair in downtown San José.

The drummer shook my hand while holding a small drum in the other and said something along the lines of:

“Hey, dude! How’d you get back here? You must be the new security!”

Then he happily strolled down the street toward a beat-up little car.

Bassist and vocalist Matthew Barnhart was considerably more composed and receptive to my questions, as was guitarist and vocalist Gabriel Moreira.

I couldn’t keep an eye on that squirrelly drummer anyway.

Matthew was happy to give me some insight into the recording process.

Matthew: “We all put so much time and effort into this project, and it really speaks for itself.”

Gabriel: “There’s a lot going on, but it really came together well. Our drummer could have been more present, but he showed up when necessary.”

Matthew: “Yeah, he orchestrated rhythms well, but definitely could have been more active in the recording process.”

I asked where the drummer was just before the people apparently running the whole event noticed that I did not possess what they called “proper credentials” or “permission to be backstage.”

Technicalities.

I was gently hustled out with all the quotes I needed from BRAINCHAMBER.

That damn drummer was nowhere to be found.

Neither, surprisingly, was his drum kit.

Someone beside the stage told me he was always the first to load in and the first to leave—a sort of “percussive Irish goodbye,” as he called it.

Fair enough.

At this point, I needed a way home, a bite to eat, something to smoke, and possibly some direction in life.

The last thing I needed was a bewildered banshee in a broken Kia barreling toward me like a bat out of hell before jerking violently into the open spot between a Naugahyde-green dumpster and a yellow-painted LOADING ZONE curb.

Out stepped the drummer.

Far too casually.

He looked directly at me.

“Hey, Security! Make sure I don’t get towed. I need to get one more drum.”

Then he ran away.

He left the keys in the ignition.

He left the driver’s door open.

He left the trunk open.

He ran like Forrest Gump.

Kind of acted like him, too.

Before I could determine what the hell was happening, he came strolling back around the corner and tossed a rather nice-looking drum into the rear of the car he had inexplicably trusted me to protect.

If I were a worse man, I could have taken everything from him.

But there was something strangely confident about the way he moved through the world.

Positive authority.

Reckless trust.

That assumption proved correct when I tapped him gently on the shoulder before he slipped into his car.

“Man, I’m not security. Why did you leave your car and drums with me?”

He pulled his sunglasses down.

“I know you’re not security. I could tell you were a decent dude when I shook your hand fresh off the stage.”

I was equally flattered and confused.

Then he asked:

“Let’s get some BBQ, Mr. Security. You down?”

I said no.

That was the closest thing I got to a quote from BRAINCHAMBER’s drummer regarding virtually anything.

To be fair, he was probably the more jovial member of the operation—just catastrophically unpredictable.

It’s reassuring, then, that Matthew Barnhart and Gabriel Moreira provide some consistency elsewhere in the BRAINCHAMBER machine.

Every band needs balance.

Somebody has to answer the questions.

Somebody has to explain the record.

And apparently, somebody has to leave a running Kia, an open trunk, several thousand dollars’ worth of musical equipment, and his complete faith in human decency with a drunk journalist he met only ten minutes earlier.

BRAINCHAMBER sounded dangerous onstage.

Apparently, they’re even more intense once the amplifiers are turned off.

— Alexander Albatross