In the Year of the Pig

Despite—and probably because of—a confusing and seemingly fluid mythology, Bruce Banner, a.k.a. The Incredible Hulk, has proven to be one of Marvel Comics’ most compelling characters since his 1962 debut. It’s hard to decide what to make of the Green Goliath.

Much like Banner and his overgrown alter ego, Chapel Hill’s In The Year Of The Pig is also compelling because it’s hard to define. Like Hulk, the massive quintet—bulked by its hefty two-bass, two-drummer rhythm section—seems to be impulsive and brutish, dropping heavy polyrhythmic beats and plodding bass lines like enormous green feet. Any walls around the band are in danger. Like Banner, too, In The Year Of The Pig is thoughtful and patient, even if prone to flares of temper.

Indeed, In The Year Of The Pig—both contemplative and impulsive—is its own foil. Its Motorik precision is met by unhinged improv, its almost funky bass by squealing feedback. The band shares a heft and relentlessness with doom metal and an ascendant direction and syncopated wiggle with dance music. Fittingly, by the end of this year’s hour-long Jamón, one feels as though he’s had an encounter with a creature of superhuman size and strength. Deep, throbbing drones have spooled out like slow shockwaves. Standing in the rubble, there’s some kind of afterglow, like a survivor’s relief mixed with adrenaline.

This is where In The Year Of The Pig ceases to resemble Banner or Hulk. This band isn’t a brooding scientist, consumed by guilt and a short-temper. Neither is it purely a misunderstood monster, frightened and confused by its size. In The Year Of The Pig is in control of itself—and of its listeners. —Bryan Reed