Bristol
6 October 2019
Getting to finally see the Circle offshoot Pharaoh Overlord is a real treat, a melodic spattered-smorgasbord of kraut-inspired groovesomness. Theirs is a full-on sound, juttering in multiples, holding a riff perfectly, mulling it round in daggering dynamics, then throwing it to a glittering horizon that combines with the strobe lighting to just eat into your head.
Tomi Leppänen’s drums appear to be bent out of shape by some effect-wizardy, the acidic zizzst of the cymbals seem to bite into the bone of that wah-flowered spacey-ness and the eddying fuzz that just pours on through. At times it’s like running through a dense forest while being chased by wolves, at others a joyride of juggernauted motorik that whittles your wits.
Jussi Lehtisalo’s vocals are slightly drowned out, but sound suitably nordic, knifed in a viking-like totem that surfs the grumbling morass with a sense of completeness; not to mention when he seems to be channelling his very own Finnish spirit animal, his guitar clambering, then psychdelically gliding all over that accenting drummage. It’s a huge sound for just two people (no doubt assisted by Sleep’s stack of ampage), and I think there’s plenty of background loopage going on in there. But nothing dampens the spontaneity; so when they cut back on the action, the cloister-bell echo of heavy piano gymnasts your ears, or a pulsing synth sound swims like a loaded gun of promise for the duo to drive around in — and they do, abandoning themselves to some burning riff/drum contortions. At one point the drumming is like some insane percussive machine which pitchforks the seismic fuzz as Jussi holds his guitar aloft Laibach-like to Tomi’s military-like maul.Facing the frets to the monitor, Jussi effect-swamps things, then proceeds to beat his chest to the rhythmic swell, theatrically thrusting this hands in star-like expansions to the percussive powerhaus falling around him. He goes all Six Million Dollar Man in a slo-mo round the stage, antics that have a real performance art quality to them with a pinch of mischievous irony to all things metal.
Waiting for the headliner, I find the walkie-talkie Nasa prologue a bit wearing, but ten (long) minutes worth of wait is rewarded when Sleep rock straight into their brand of reverbed resplendence, a doomic metal that is all of their own. Now, I’m only familiar with their Holy Mountain LP, but I’m not disappointed by the lack of song context. The sound is enormous, delves deep and slow, a growling drone over which Jason Roeder’s drums spew a fractured codex. A riff forms from the sludge, a Black Sabbath rebirth sizzling in a purring percussive as Matt Pike’s guitar curves the bass, chases its rippling tones to surf a weird melodic. When Al Cisneros finally leans into the mic, his voice is like the goblin king guzzling Benolin, and he sings a few lines before returning to his beloved bass to drown us in more monolithic magnificence. Yeah, it is heavy, and both guitarists are titan-like, dispatching a loud and slow intensity that rips into your chest, pulls your ear plugs clean out of your lugholes. When the threesome lock horns, the audience is transformed into an ocean of nodding heads. The devotee next to me thrusts his whole body back’n’forth in undulating appreciation, his long black hair whipping the air as Matt arches into his guitar ascent, twisting his instrument’s gain until we are speared in spikes of feedback.Periodically we are treated to some mighty fine and very trippy effect-saturated fret work from Cisneros, who transforms his bass into a springy harpsichord full of feral budgies. Later, Matt roasts us in monumentalness as the drums splat like perplex-covered puddles around him, until suddenly they’re all riding the wave of another Leviathan. Honestly, I’m loving this constant mutation which metal is still undergoing, and these two bands are certainly securing its window-rattling future.
-Michael Rodham-Heaps-
