London
1 December 2018
It’s Saturday night. It’s Oxford Street. It’s nearly Christmas.
It’s fucking horrible, is what it is. And what a relief to get into The 100 Club which, while packed, is still somehow less claustrophobic than the street outside. And the reason it’s packed is because everyone’s hear to see The Heads, the elusive Bristolian psych-rock combo whose gigs are as rare as rocking horse shit and whose albums are more collectable.
It would have been nice to have seen support Flowers Must Die, but due to a bus that spent a full thirty-five minutes sitting at the lights in King’s Cross, all I can really tell you about them is that they ended on an impressive squall of feedback.
And, like most psych-rockers of a certain age, The Heads take the stage looking not entirely dissimilar to an angry IT department. And then they proceed to tear apart space-time with a set that flips from relentless mantric noise to full-on Acid Mothers Temple-level shredding. Occasional Fall-esque vocals drop in and out to add another colour to the already-impressive sonic palette, but really it’s all about the guitars. And the bassist who looks like he’s on another planet. I mean, all the guys look like they’re on another planet, but the bassist looks like he’s not even on the same planet as the rest of them — albeit one that’s perfectly in tune with the other. And from down here on Earth it sounds magnificent.
-Words: Justin Farrington-
-Pictures: Dave Pettit-
