Let them dance

Tulsa finds its anthem mid-climb, and it’s played by Guardant

There’s this picture I have of Greg Hulett, the closest thing Tulsa group Guardant has to a front man. It was taken at Tulsa Tough, at the apex of Cry Baby Hill, that symbol of our city’s struggle for critical mass and radness. Cyclists screamed up the unholy hill, with no barricade to protect them from our city’s erupting id. Everyone was raging their damnedest, drowning all notions of the race in booze and costume. People yelled, hugged, and danced; it was Guardant that dance-rocked the whole bacchanalia. Shirtless, sunglassed, and smiling triumphant, Greg was in the middle of it all, holding a beer and a flag.

Greg described Guardant’s sound in a recent text: “errrr dancey new wave?” Just like the crowds at their shows, none of their instruments sit still. You know how some bass just follows the rhythm guitar? The bass doesn’t do that in Guardant. Near funk and Latin-ish, it serpentines and pops beneath the band’s gloss. It’s played by a man named Milo, who once drank human ashes in his beer.* Every other instrument is just as individual and integral to the band’s sound.

There’s this quality some Tulsa bands have right now that strikes me as totally, completely Tulsa—not “post genre,” but just left of what’s expected. Dull Drums and Gogo Plumbay come to mind. It’s a carefree shirking of easy labels—it may come from being a small city where talent intermingles—and Guardant is Tulsa to a “T” in this sense. Their core sound is every great trend in EDM, but played by New Order with help from John Carpenter.

Though Greg is the pseudo frontman, nearly every member shares vocal duties—that’s except Toad, Greg’s brother and the group’s synth-smith. Lead guitarist, Fry, would be considered one of Tulsa’s top players if his humility didn’t mask the fact. His angular runs and Van Halen taps mesh fluidly with Toad’s saw-lead bombast. Live percussion, from Mason Remel, often counters Greg’s programmed beats, and turns solid songs into crowd-tested ragers. The overall effect is something more than the average, by-the-numbers dance-rock—it’s a whole that’s greater than the sum of its parts.

A typical Guardant show is a throw-down. Dance music can be a refuge for the crossed-arm “hip,” but Guardant approaches it with all the grace of a pro wrestler. The “dance” in Dance-Rock manifests in crowd response, but the “rock” part comes from the group’s arena posturing. I’ve seen Toad rip a key solo from atop his amp at Soundpony and Greg, Fry, and Milo shred united in that metal, parallel-guitar stance. They may play more than 50 times a year, but it never fails to be an event.

It’s easy for the group to have fun in Tulsa. It’s also just as easy to watch them not worry about having fun anywhere else. Tulsa is finally back on the map, a destination for groups instead of just a blip en route to Austin. It’s a breeding ground and a source of excitement for singular acts like Guardant.

But these dudes could take over the globe if they wanted. Two nights before Guardant’s show at Tulsa Tough I booked a show for an Austin band. I asked Guardant to open. While the group played, an Austin dude yelled at me: “Who the hell are these guys? This is amazing.” It’s a common response. I asked Greg why the group isn’t on every fest in America right now.

He told me they just want to focus on writing new stuff. He added, “None of us are really comfortable getting out there and calling for that degree of attention.” Meanwhile, the group lights sparklers at a basement show, woos cougars at the VFW, and makes a habit of turning Soundpony inside out. And then there was the day Tulsa faced once again its Cry Baby Hill, when Guardant sound-tracked an apocalypse, breaking only so Greg could drunk-dive through some hula-hoops.

*(or so he said in front of a crowd out back of Soundpony).