Meshuggah played at Irving Plaza last night, and it was insane. These guys are just flawless technicians when it comes to their instruments, and it absolutely boggles my mind. But I’m getting a little bit ahead of myself, because part of the reason their performance had such an impact on me, was probably the stark contrast between them and the opening act. So let me start from there.

Hemlock took the stage at 8:00 and proceeded to bludgeon their way through about half an hour of mind-numbingly simple party-thrash, if such a thing exists. Their singer/bassist put more emphasis on making devil horns and pulling on his own dreadlocks, than he did on actually playing his instrument. I suppose it’s somewhat excusable, since the bass was mostly inaudible anyway, but I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who had grown tired of his antics by the time he insisted that 10 more people join the mosh pit, or when he started his own chant of “Hem-lock, hem-lock, hem-lock …” that no one felt like joining in on. It was fitting that the audience participation consisted of laughing in unison with the last song’s campy “ha-ha-ha-ha” riff, and holding up our middle fingers as prompted.

When Meshuggah came on around 9:00, there was no obnoxious stage banter, fist-pumping, or crowd-baiting. They just launched into their set at full throttle without an introduction of any kind. Their colossal 8-string guitars sounded monstrous yet crisp as they navigated the ridiculously technical rhythms of behemoth riffs. Lead vocalist Jens Kidman seemed to be suspended in water as he loomed out over the crowd, somehow managing to scream in time with the polyrhythmic insanity that was going on. These guys’ talent is other-worldly. I’m sure part of the crowd were a little confounded and unsure what to make of them, but the rest of us were in total awe.

Their setlist featured a few songs from their new album obZen, including the mind-bending “Bleed,” a 7-minute lesson in dexterity that must be drummer Tomas Haake’s double bass equivalent of doing 500 push-ups. The opening riff in that song feels like fast-revolving gears of a machine that has somehow learned to breathe, gradually inhaling and exhaling with the pitch bends. Jeff and I were discussing whether or not it would even be possible to pull off a song like that live, especially with the mechanical precision of the studio recording. Apparently it is possible after all.

I think Irving Plaza is an ideally-sized venue for Meshuggah. Their sound is too big for a cramped nightclub, but their surgical finesse would be totally lost in a stadium. The sound in there was perfect, and I don’t think any one of them missed a note. These guys reign supreme as the undisputed titans of the chaotic groove - a guitar apocalypse that’s somehow grounded with a steady backbeat. If you ever get a chance to check them out live, it is not to be missed. Seriously.

Also, apparently they were opening for Ministry last night. I don’t know, I left after Meshuggah’s metal lobotomy had sufficiently melted my brain and smeared it all over the inside of my skull like paste. Ahhhh.

Too many monophonic sine waves and glitchy electronic beats can rot your teeth. It’s with this in mind that the Age of Rockets balance out the sugary sweet studio gadgetry with healthy doses of acoustic instruments and live orchestrations on their new album Hannah. There’s a pizzicato string quartet interlude for every vintage synthesizer pad, a chorus of taiko drums for every digital handclap, and a gently-strummed acoustic guitar for every artificially-added vinyl pop. Most importantly, lead singer Andrew Futral’s emotional delivery provides an instant connection, stripping away any distance between the listener and the music that hipster-approved indie rock with laptop-generated 21st century beats might elicit.

If pressed to make a comparison, the overall sound on Hannah is somewhere between the orchestral soundscapes of Sigur Rós and the danceable electronica of The Postal Service. But attempting to define the genre of a band like the Age of Rockets is problematic, because it doesn’t say anything about the songs themselves. The limitations of any defined label would ultimately do a disservice to a band this sincere, or an album that refuses to be limited itself. Though bookended by the hushed tones of sweet lullabies (“What Story Down There Awaits Its End?” and “Stitches to Show Something’s Missing”), the eleven tracks on Hannah are dramatically loud just as often as they are dramatically soft.

One standout track early on is “Avada Kedavra,” which relentlessly pulses forward with only a whisper, gradually building and adding subtle textures. The layers blend together fluidly, building intensity while somehow completely restrained. The unforgettable refrain “the sky explodes” ends up predicting the ultimate release of the song, when the second chorus kicks in with live drums and a bed of lush strings underneath a sea of multi-tracked vocal harmonies to create a wall of sound. The explosive percussion cuts out just as abruptly as it entered a minute later, and the gorgeous strings linger for a moment, only to eventually abandon the ambient choir of vocals to be carried to the last cadence by a cavernous reverb.

Other songs achieve a similar emotional effect throughout, if somewhat unpredictability, with less of a pop sensibility. Songs like “H. Soft Escape” and “The End of Faith” abandon any type of standard hook-focused song format completely, but somehow still manage to get themselves stuck in your head. The epic “We Won’t Stop” cuts itself off halfway through the first chorus and gives way to a minute-long intermission of strings by themselves. The song eventually builds back up to a huge finale with crashing drums, spectacular harp flourishes, and thundering piano chords, before its gradual decay. Several times across the album’s eleven tracks, quirky compositional structures and odd time signatures punctuate the emotional impact of the songs without sounding out of place or distracting.

But for all the impeccable arrangements and studio wizardry, the main unifying element throughout is definitely Futral’s vocals, frequently doubled, but often layered much deeper to create an entire chorus. Smooth harmonies across multiple octaves whisper and breathe in and out of each other, interacting seamlessly with decidedly less organic sounds, like arpeggiated synthesizers and laser gun drum machines. It’s a delicate mix that is sustained across every song on the album, through the last shimmering rhodes chord. For anyone interested in quality music that they can feel an emotional connection to, I highly recommend this album. Whether you’re looking for a new soundtrack to your life, or if you just feel like listening to some infectious songs that won’t give you cavities, now is the Age of Rockets.