Bristol
2 October 2024
The support was this lone guitarist called Tashi Dorji, whose layered-up, naturally decaying goods were ace.
A skilful balance between delicate and full-on. At one point he creates this awesome strum-surfed drone – an industrialised monologue that terrorises the space… and I’m like eyes closed floating in that hiss-stabbed mutating wonder before it’s cast to a cattle-grate harshness. The strings sing an exciting improvised thrust, the fretwork fiery, roasting a flamenco-like jiver and twisting the emotional into the looped goods.
Some overlaid subtlety getting lost to the looper’s roar, but overall a great show of strength. Diverting guitar-less to a haunted extractor fan of modular exploration that circuit-dances with real surprise; pity I didn’t have enough to acquire that Javanese-artworked album of his.
Taking their time, Godspeed You! Black Emperor slowly assembled on the stage, each taking root to their wares, adding to the prevailing dynamics. The scratched letters of hope jump on the illuminated wall behind the semi-circle of performers. The gathering storm sonically spiring, conspiring, sliding skilfully into view. Haven’t seen Godspeed live since the early 2000s (though I continued to buy their wares) and I’m glad to report they’ve lost none of their majesty. That sad elixir, the stuttering stigmata of that dogged perseverance and explosive deliverance all still razor sharp.A droning garland, cut back to Efrim Manuel Menuck’s nomadic guitar harmonically magnetising the air. Circling loops eerily scooped up by Sophie Trudeau’s sinewy slide, reactive riches thumped into a marching-boot percussive (those double drums are insanely powerful) twisting tribal, suddenly exploding. The nature shots behind them disappearing in favour of urban decay and tracer-scarred skies — it’s all very evocative, energising — the unit tight and focused.
Godspeed’s world is visually dirty, sincerely scratched to fuck. Gritty loops of the world’s wrongs circle the music, the rotting spectre of big industry and the aftermath of war. A hurt the music feels, emotionally pinned to the disappointment. The cacophony they carve up – part frustration, but more a rejection sparking hope in the raw. A protest for difference, elevating the space. The sadness of the smoking coastline caught on spiralling frets, a limping tune that creeps into view, to be bolstered, ennobled. A sense of frustration that fuses well with the burning canopy behind them as their rage soars wordless around, then drifting down on a calming release as the film strip begins to slip and bubble under the projector’s heat. Its syrupy smears veining outward, a beautiful sunset of colours ambering the music’s change of direction. That floating lilt a liquefying bruise your ears lap up.Sophie’s violin held to this see-sawing jig. A pretty tune accumulating followers in conversational curves that layer themselves up, expand in fresh flourishes. First Thierry Amar‘s contrabass feeling every Mingus … then Mauro Pezzente‘s bass weaving between a tangle of guitars. Sounds that poetically melt into each other, cascade nosily anew. When the sonic is dense, enough Sophie starts cutting into her strings — a heavy drone from which those double drums explode around, their ferocity giving me an early Swans glow. Epic doesn’t begin to describe it. Cranium-set rainbows of wow.
Sadly I haven’t had chance to listen to the new album yet, so I’m not recognising the tracks played; but the angry rub of “‘Piss Crowns Are Trebled” is one I do. An absolute star in the set — a super-heavy spiralling, head-swaying lilt-o-sarus burning forever outward. Switching on a triumphant tempo to loop-tear a new hole of driven absolution full of miraged wonder. The track’s embering aftermath leading to lovely bit of twilighted abstraction, echoing glints and cymbal scrapes. A wonderful atmospheric, nibbling the atonal — slipping neatly into a snaking bend of chord that circles back to the band’s debut, the crowd’s appreciative cheers signalling the rise of “The Sad Mafioso”.Efrim’s and Mike Moya’s screwdrivered fret sirens moaning out (that trademark GY!BE aura I’ll never tire of), the growing momentum taking in a rich ribbon of chant whirling back round, the urgent melody spiralling from within, as looped footage of an old man clasping his head in his hands endlessly cuts back and forth. The sound suddenly staccato-stapled and barking abstraction, your eyes pulled to the blacked feathers of two battling cockerels tearing each other apart, to terminate on a chandelier-shaking saturation your body is lost to in grinning satisfaction.
A pleasure decanted in to some haunted soundscape as each band member left the stage, some of whom give a humble wave goodbye to the crowd, the looped material left playing to a completely empty stage. Two band members returning to slowly manipulate the goods, rattling the amps’ reverb stings, pulling the sound this way and that, then eased sweetly out of focus, the decreasing layers revealing delicate secrets before enviable silence.Probably the best GY!BE show I’ve ever witnessed.
-Michael Rodham-Heaps-
