Bristol
8 September 2018
Luckily zero nightmares on the parking front meant we only missed a small portion of Microdeform’s set, a colour-washed dronescape, needled by fractured dissidence.
These tasty elasticated hues pulling you into a kaleidoscope of blistered sunsets, spreading out in grainy after-images
constantly pursued, re-shaping into succulent blooms of swayability.
Lamplights in a drifting fog, serrated in darkened depth charges and pebble-sped water. An aeronautic soundtrack to be savoured.
Bristol’s
Agarimo, fronted by Spanish-born brothers
Juan and
Pablo Mestres quickly followed and proceeded to rough you up with their satisfying brand of post-punk. A
high-octane drama of guitars, bass and nailing percussion that aggressively ate your brain in palette-knifed sonics and (in)decipherable lyrics. The last track dishing out on a
Wire-like urgency, tangled up with a combative Jenga of jutting colours. If I had any spare cash, I would have taken their recent EP on
Stolen Body Records away with me.
The much-anticipated
Julie’s Haircut were phenomenal live, each track coaxing you gently in to dynamically dispatch the goodness. A complex concoction of proggy poke and
Suspiria-like sweeps that would
burn up in a mesmerising maul of sirening guitars and saucy synth. Little imp(ish) leaps of improvised zeal goose-bumping the murmuring
motorik, those delicious curvy nibbles of nebula expansion itching on though. Yeah, it was joy to take in.
The odd jazzy injection snaking in, lemonading the melodic manacles before
spraying out in opiated orbits and creamy cosmic canters. That sticky metronomed chug of “Orpheus Rising” siphoning some mighty fine seventies-type balladry, full of
Amon Düül II whispers and tilting stabs. Plenty of taut titillation and satisfying sway to their wares, but for me they really hit it when they found some sultry tribal colours and ran with them, the energy souring beautifully into a shit-storm of noisy sonics,
Laura Agnusdei’s vocals transformed into ascending screams spiked in clawed electronics.
The two vocalists crouched upfront as a cacophony behind them carved up the skyline, a sinister corrugated glow vexed with volatility, sinking back to a slinky erythema gently shimmering in a tease of tasty triads. A smoking gun that was more than matched by the blistering intensity of their finale, where a sunburnt psychedelia of
effect-riddled sax ripped into molten cliffs of zesty overdrive that nosedived (all too quickly) into avid applause.
-Michael Rodham-Heaps-
Bristol
