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Seven That Spells (live at Baba Yaga’s Hut)

Seven That Spells live at Baba Yaga's HutThe Shacklewell Arms, London 25 February 2015

Called in at the last minute to cover a band of whom I’ve never heard but am assured I’ll like, I’m downstairs at The Shacklewell Arms, its cave-like stage, especially the part where the drummer has an actual alcove instead of a riser, proving to be the perfect location in which to take in the oddly-named Seven That Spells, purveyors of, in their own words, “modern, aggressive psychedelic wall of sound incorporating polymetrics and occasional Viking funeral rites; hailing from the 23rd century where rock is dead“. Which just about covers it. Except it can’t, because to just use a band’s own words for a review and then bugger off kind of defeats the whole

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Seven That Spells / Anta / IYABE (live at the Stag and Hounds)

Bristol 23 February 2015

IYABE live in Bristol February 2015From the IYABE’s screamy staggering starts, I was expecting that riot grrrl action to continue, but it was quickly evident these weren’t one-trick ponies, but a dynamic beast, dissolving onto something more deliberated, atmospheric, flitting happily between spindly trip-hops, brooding frustration and a whole lot else.

They fitted themselves around an array of spooky pre-recorded landscapes that exploited that soulful vocal exploration to the maximum with a sweet liquorice Zola Jesus-like lilt that leaked on through most of the set, not to mention those broody double drums that give me the “Play Dead” shivers. Everyone swapping their instrumentation between tracks, the vibes best relished when plenty of welly was put behind it all, stoking the frustration into spikey bursts that at one

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Seven That Spells – The Death And Resurrection Of Krautrock: IO

Sulatron

Seven That Spells - The Death And Resurrection Of Krautrock: IOLove the way Seven That Spells storm at you in corrugations of drum and hyperactive fret fingers on the second instalment of their Death And Resurrection Of Krautrock albums, staggered momentums that cool into some twilight rebound, a delight as bassy injections flirt with the drums and the guitar noodling some sweet Egyptian-strung ode.

Far from the kraut-worshipping you’d at first expect, IO dips nicely into some eastern European chants, like a male Le Mystère des Voix Bulgares chased by the gnostic fox, the surrounding instruments stoking an elaborate Circle-esque pyre of mysticism, its rhythmic core holding you in its spell. It brings to mind those Master Musicians of Bukkake as the shrinking spaces fall into a delicious insect-filled pavilion, sitar shapes echoing the wavering grass. An interesting detour to

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