...my first time seeing these legends, and with their recent Touch LP figure-heading the proceedings those open-ended adventurers flew fiery from the start. Nevada(ry) soft focus they descend -- all desert twilights and snaky rhythms, the cold black backdrop behind rippling with an ochre glow as John Herndon’s drums held command over the flex.
live review
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With four red lights and plenty of dry ice, the group in their sharp suits and nonchalant swagger looked like a dissolute Rat Pack, each member moving in time with the music, already caught up in the atmosphere... Definitely a night to remember, like a snapshot in time reflected into the future.
Songs mutate and evolve, improvised elements sticking and becoming part of the canon. In fact, Swans evolve to such a degree that I reckon given a long enough tour, one of their songs is infinitely more likely to develop sentience than any fucking LLM.
When I first moved to London in 1990 at the tender age of eighteen, I was in part drawn by the lure of a city offering plenty of live music. So of course the first thing I did was go to see Fields Of The Nephilim at The Town and Country Club. And now, thirty-five years later, here they are in the same building (though now it’s called The Forum), celebrating their own fortieth anniversary.
When Phew starts it’s a slow hypnosis of slippery sounds, her voice recoiling a merry-go-round full of twisty vapours. This bamboo beat is introduced, whipped in rhythmic rat tails and trapped moth zither. The sounds are rich, roll into each other with stretchy squishability I totally warm to.
The last night of a short UK tour for the rejuvenated Prolapse found us making our way on a miserable evening up the Gloucester Road in Bristol to The Golden Lion pub, a proper old English corner boozer with a 200-ish capacity room at the back. There was a good vibe in the place on arrival and with three bands on the bill, a sense of expectation.
That all-important hypnotic unison that each attentively drives towards until the density manifests, literally just appears and things lock into a gristled repeat full of vaporising trajectories. In this case it’s almost industrial -- a buzzing solid wasping your head with its cavorting sibilance. A miraged montage, where you’re not sure who’s doing what, all reverberating in delicious tribal splashes.
The encore gives some of the release the audience have been craving, a delirious bagpipe-led trance concoction, which drifts just the other side of the line between Dionysian and line-dancing. Even the band seem a little surprised, as if this had come from somewhere they hadn’t previously been prepared to go. The King Arthur is a bit like that sometimes.
A slowly evolving space full of tapering shapes and vortexed growth. Mr York adding flute to the modular carpet Steve Davis and Kavus Torabi supplied. A rich and heady concoction, edged in feathery floating viewpoints and ashened in peppery paper cuts.
Why they aren't playing to at least a few hundred people per night is a complete mystery, but they clearly enjoy their peripatetic lifestyle... enjoying the enthusiasm of those people that made an effort on a Tuesday night. It was one of the best things I have seen in a long time; the joy, the intensity, the love for the songs and respect for the audience all added up to an unforgettable evening and long may they continue.
A show of shimmery frets and arrowed harmonics carpeted in the subtle ebb of swirling effects. The bayoneted brilliance of Tom Greenwood’s words hazily biting that drumless flow.
Made me wish I was more familiar with what was being played, but to be honest it didn’t really matter, for now I was caught up in the muscled savagery of it all. That all-in passionate and sweat-drenched prism of sharded lyrics and tons of wah-waded and drone-coated interest. A driven emphasis greedily keeping you up close and personal, crowned by this wedging might of double drums.
... the reason it works, always has worked, and just keeps working is that Guitar Wolf, like Motörhead, don’t fuck with the formula. And, like Motörhead, they take rock’n’roll, strip it back to its basics, and do it faster, louder and, most importantly, COOLER than anyone else.
...it’s also Desertfest weekend, so I’m off to sunny Camden Town to see the world’s finest collection of Orange amps and hear some of the finest crushingly loud music available.
The arresting hugeness of a projected bird's eye breaks the darkness of the stage as Wardruna’s harmonising voices rise to a regularised patter, punctured by a defiant shell-like crunch. A sound that grows on a waltzing mirage becoming equally huge as the silhouetted band is suddenly thrown into illuminated focus.
Boy did Laibach bring the drama … the first third of the show cherry-picking their back catalogue, starting with a mangled noise-fest with lots of slanted perspectives and controlled chaos. A scampering scrapyard of debris and screeching guitar, the drummer coming out from behind his kit to supply an eerie air-raid drone from a spinning air-pipe as the keyboardist’s chords conjured a host of bent up, shattered shapes.
Stereocilia was here for the launch of his latest album Phases, but joining him on the bill was Deb Googe of My Bloody Valentine and Thurston Moore's band fame, and local soon-to-be legends Ex Agent.
Bristol 10 January 2025 Support for The Jesus Lizard‘s eagerly awaited trip to The Fleece in Bristol came from that city’s own purveyors of mutant post-punk hip hop, Lice. Having not seen them since their extraordinary set at the Bristol Psych Fest back in the summer of 2017 where it was like The Beastie Boys fronting The Birthday Party. Since then, they seem to have picked up a […]