Aural Aggravation

The Fulford Arms, York, 30th January 2016

Christopher Nosnibor

There are many who dismiss local bands out of hand as being inferior. Usually, they’re the people who don’t bother to investigate what’s actually happening on their doorstep, and similarly, fail to appreciate that every band is local to somewhere. York is no exception: there are many who bemoan the lack of a scene in the city, or otherwise complain that there’s a lack of variety. Tonight’s show is as good an advertisement for the York scene as any you’ll see, the three bands on the lineup being complimentary to one another without being remotely similar – and not a sniff of indie, folk or acoustic singer-songwriter material to be found.

The place is already getting full by the time the Wharf Street Galaxy Band take the stage. Sporting matching red boiler suits with custom prints on the back, they open with the fractal dub of ‘Inhuman Resources’. As the set progresses, they churn out a succession of dense, bass-driven efforts that combine the scratchy krautrock repetitions of The Fall around the time of Dragnet and Grotesque with the jagged edges of early PiL. While Dave Procter occasionally adopts a Lydonesque sneer which is perfectly complimented by Ash Sagar’s Jah Wobble-worthy bass grooves, he mostly delivers his political (and occasionally surreal) lyrical outpourings in a techy, hectoring tone. John Tuffen hangs to the rear of the stage and remains static, and looks like he’s auditioning for a Kraftwerk tribute act. The band’s northern attitude is integral to their work: Procter admonishes Iain Duncan Smith with the reminder that this is how we do things in the north, and spins out the narrative of ‘Sergio Leone Comes to Keighley’ in an unashamedly Leeds accent, raising a metaphorical middle finger to both the Capitol-dwelling capitalists who run the country, and the London-centric music scenes which continue to dominate the press.

The Wharf Street Galaxy Band

Expectations are high for Stereopscope’s debut. Emerging from the ashes of Viewer, the electropop duo consisting of Tim Wright and AB Johnson are reincarnated as a three-piece featuring Martell James, former drummer Honeytone Cody. The place is pretty heaving by the time the stage is plunged into darkness and black-and-white scenes from around the city flicker on the stage backdrop through a low electronic throb. Immediately, it’s clear this is no Viewer rebranding: the bright, club-friendly indie trappings are gone, along with the immediacy of the songs. Stereoscope are all about the slow-build: the throb goes on, and on, seemingly interminably. The tension mounts. Finally, AB Johnson takes to the stage, and things build around his dry monotone vocals. And build. And build.

Stereoscope

The songs are long, dark and designed to challenge the audience. There are no chirpy choruses or bouncy basslines. Instead, layer upon layer of sound evolve as rhythms and counter-rhythms intersect; the programmed drums are stark and mechanoid, while Martell’s live drumming adds depth and dynamic, not to mention weight. While Johnson still banters between songs and berates Wright for ‘pressing the space bar’ too hastily, he’s no longer the cynical, jaded but ultimately groove-orientated front man he was with Viewer, but a tortured cipher of anguish. He wears it well. The backdrop bursting into colour for the set’s final pop flourish, it’s a hugely triumphant debut.

Stereoscope

This is where having a diverse lineup is astute. If Soma Crew sounded anything like either of the preceding acts, they may have been in danger of being eclipsed. But the only real common element the three acts share is hypnotic repetition. Soma Crew are master of repetition. Any band that are content to bludgeon away at a single chord, or maybe two, for six minutes or more is always going to get my vote, and these guys are the absolute kings of the locked groove.

It’s six deep at the bar and I abandon the idea of another pint, and instead hunker down stage front where I can best immerse myself in their whirling smog of sound. They don’t disappoint. They play loud and crank out those endless grooves in near darkness, while kaleidoscopic patterns project behind their silhouettes. Merging the tripped-out energy of Spacemen 3 and the cavernous, reverb-heavy psychedelic grooves of Black Angels with a dash of the most motoric Krautrock (drummer Nick Clambake doesn’t go for the heroics, hammering out a steady beat without resorting to fills or cymbal crashes for almost he full duration of the 50-minute set), it’s utterly immersive.

Soma Crew

The set builds to a monumental climax of sound, and rejecting calls for an encore, they exit the stage, drained and shredded, leaving the crowd wanting more. Credit to them: encores are just so predictable, and they’ve already done enough to leave us all half-deaf for the next three days. Take it from me, gigs don’t get much better than this, local or national, any time, any place.

The Fulford Arms, York, 16^th January 2016

Christopher Nosnibor

As a rule, I tend to keep my reviewing focus on the bands and the music, rather than myself. But there’s very much a personal element to tonight’s show.

So, first, some back story: in my early teens, I worked in a second-hand record shop – the likes of which you don’t really find any more – in Lincoln. The owner, Vincent, was a fanatical old-school punk, who would pogo round the shop and drum on the counter as he introduced me to bands like The Adverts, Slaughter and The Dogs, The Ruts, Penetration. That musical education was an integral part of my adolescence, but equally, provided the backdrop to my transition to music reviewing. The owner was also a bass player with a love of strolling basslines, and played sporadically with a band who never seemed to have the same lineup for more than a month.

20 years on, the shop is no more, but Suburban Toys are still going, and in the 20 years since I last saw them, they’ve supported the majority of the old-school punk bands their bassist introduced me to. Tonight is another one of those support slots – one of many they’ve had with 999.

York three-piece Percy sound like The Fall circa ‘77, and chop out a ramshackle-as-fuck set to get the night going. The sound is hindered by some serious guitar pedal grief, but shit happens, and said pedal gets booted around the stage for its unwillingness to co-operate. It all adds to the appeal of their shouty four-chord discordant blasts about doomed relationships and shit jobs delivered with a snarky sarcasm and a hint of curmudgeonliness.

Percy

Casting an eye over my badly scrawled notes, I’d scribbled comparisons to The Slits and Martha and the Muffins in respect of Suburban Toys’ current ska-infused post-punk pop sound (they were a much darker, post-punk proposition the last time I saw them), and then they only went and covered ‘Echo Beach’. The strolling basslines are pinned to some tight drumming. The band sound tight and look like they’re having fun, the songs short and punchy and with a keen sense of melody. They’re well received, and their free CDs fly near the end of their set, before they wrap up with a blistering rendition of Penetration’s ‘Don’t Dictate’ that seriously gets the front rows going.

Suburban Toys

Looking at the guys on stage before them, no-one could say that 999 have aged particularly well, and on listening to the songs almost 40 years on, the notion that punk was primitive and built on an advancement of standard, 4-chord pub rock is borne out here. It’s easy enough to say with hindsight, of course. What’s easy to forget is that such overtly political material, angry sloganeering, driven by high-octane guitar riffage, amped to the max wasn’t only revolutionary in musical terms, but in the way it brought people together.

While I’m often pretty down on nostalgia as a raison d’etre, 999 have an undeniable energy – and a new album out. Whereas there’s a sense that The Damned and The Buzzcocks are going through the notions and doing it for the money – and the less said about The Sex Pistols reunions he better – it’s obvious these guys aren’t exactly raking in the filthy lucre doing the small venue / pub circuit.

999

Their debut album, released in 1978, is one of those perfect encapsulations of the punk spirit, and tracks like ‘Me and My Desire’ and ‘Hit Me’ still do the trick, and the latter portion of the set includes the trio of ‘Emergency’, ‘Nasty, Nasty’ and ‘Homicide’ (for which they’re joined by Vincent from the Toys on backing vocals) really ratchets it up in the packed-out venue.

999

They encore with ‘Lie Lie Lie’ from 1980’s The Biggest Prize in Sport and a riotous rendition of ‘I’m Alive’ which nearly brings the house down.

999 may not be pin-up material, and nor may the music sounds exactly cutting edge in 2016.

The fact the audience, the majority of whom are in the 50+ bracket, get down, and whip up one of the most energetic moshpits I’ve seen in ages is impressive, and puts the young punk, rock and metal crowds to shame. Yeah, fuck you, stroking your beards and nursing your rucksacks and cans of Red Stripe – how about actually showing some passion? 40 years on and the old guard clearly still have it.

99 Setlist

The Brudenell Social Club, 15^th January 2015

Christopher Nosnibor

Less of a gig and more of a mini-festival, the lineup represented a herculean – and vaguely daunting – assemblage of brutal metal: with five bands over almost five hours, this was a marathon of brutality in the making. And yes, it delivered on its promise.

Kicking off early (6:50 early), Gloomweaver get things going to a suitably thunderous start. The trio – a configuration of bassist, drummer and angry nihilistic shouter – bring a heavy trudge and some monstrous grooves from a dark place and call to mind Godflesh and early Swans. Interlaced with classic doom tropes. From amidst an ever-reflecting labyrinth of infinite delay, the heavily processed vocals are delivered with force.

Gloomweaver

In contrast with the confrontational stance of Gloomweaver, Mountains Crave offer a more atmospheric approach to both presentation and the music. Swathed in a dense smog of smoke, their songs gradually unfurl through lengthy passages of a more delicate nature before erupting into cataclysmic mayhem. Swirling, expansive post-metal sections collide with pure black metal fury, and there are heavy hints of Neurosis to be found in their sound as they unleash a fierce, primal howl from the depths of ancient swamps and forests. If Mountains Crave play to convention, they at least do so with total conviction and unflinching ferocity.

Mountains Crave

With DVNE, it’s all about that snarling, low-slung bass sound. Wait, no: that’s the guitar. They’ve got two of them, and the dual vocals register the upper and lower frequencies while the bass gnaws at your intestines. Packing in tempo changes galore, the songs lurch from doomy sludge to lightning pace black thrash via expansive, epic sections each track features multiple, unexpected and seamless transitions. We’re firmly in progressive metal territory, and this is innovative and technical stuff, detailed, complex, and as fierce as hell.

DVNE

Nursing my pint and inching closer to the stage as the venue became increasingly full and gilled with an air of anticipation, I felt oddly conspicuous as one of the few without a big beard. Yet for all of the ferocity of the music, I’m always struck by just how docile and thoroughly decent metal crowds are, and the atmosphere in the busy Brudenell reminded me just how accommodating and broad-minded the fans are, and the diversity of the acts to this point only illustrated the point. So many different shades of metal.

But for all that, I’d heard rumblings of division where Gnaw Their Tongues were concerned. By which I mean, a fair few people seem less than keen on their work. But then, perhaps appreciation of GTT requires an appreciation as much of power electronics as anything metal. Until now, they’ve been the studio-bound project of Mories, and only began taking it out on the road early in 2015. Morries plays five-string bass and screams, while his two cohorts twiddle knobs and poke laptops. Which essentially adds up to laptop metal. The drums are all too often buried in the mix, and while power electronics acts like Whitehouse and Prurient offer sharp diction and abrasive lyrical content, and variety and texture respectively, Gnaw Their Tongues’ sample-infused sonic assault grows a shade samey over the course of a fairly lengthy set. And yet, for all that, it was a decent performance, issuing forth a relentlessly uncompromising noise.

Gnaw Their Tongues

And then Dragged Into Sunlight took things up several notches, both in terms of volume and violent force. The foursome are braving a public appearance without balaclavas tonight, but the stage is kept in near darkness – alternating with blinding strobes – and they play almost the full duration of their set with their backs to the crowd. The candle-stand at the front of the stage, atop of which sits a an antlered skull, adds to the theatre and sense of occasion, and if anything, the presentation and cultivated distance between artist and audience only heightens the intensity of the performance. And intense it is – searing, gut-churning and agonisingly intense. That the music hits at three hundred miles an hour with the weight of a Boeing 747 falling from the sky almost goes without saying. That they don’t sit in the ‘extreme metal’ bracket for nothing is a given. That it’s dark, unremittingly harsh is an understatement. But live, it’s all in the execution. Is it mere catharsis when your retinas are scorched and your ears are bleeding? Call it what you like, but Dragged Into Sunlight take everything to another level.

Dragged Into Sunlight

It’s only just January, but I’m wondering if I’m likely to see another show anywhere near as visceral as this during 2016.

The Fleeting Arms, York, 22nd December 2015

Christopher Nosnibor

So, my final live show of 2015: the obligatory ‘Christmas Foulage’ which finds 上下顛倒罪人的地獄 make one of their infrequent but regular trips into the public was pitched as an event whereby ‘4 disgusting “bands” take to a “venue” to have a party of the foulest kind.’

The tiny indie venue was surprisingly full for a Tuesday night, in York, three days before Christmas, offering music of what can reasonably be described as somewhat fringe, and it was pleasing to see. And who knew that musical forms so heavily weighted with associations of anger, malevolence and sonic brutality could make for a party, even a foul one?

Relative newcomers Seep Away, who recently announced their arrival into the world with an eponymous EP, get things going with a set that brings together punk and grind with a raw energy that’s unmistakeable and a passion that’s unfakeable, even when the guy who’s screaming his lungs out is wearing a Santa hat.

The Puddin’s – stepping in as last-minute replacements for industrial / grind / metal / cabaret act Petrol Hoers, who I’d been looking forward to – aren’t grind – but nor are they as daft as their name or outfits (bearded guitarist in a dress, shirtless bassist sporting a troll mask) suggest. Fierce, grimy crust punk is the thing they do. And they do it pretty well, too, and at appropriate volume. Which means it’s an ugly, shouty racket, played loud.

Puddin’s: Brutal noise with an awkward apostrophe

As I’m composing my thoughts and some notes, a guy is setting up a table with a blender and some plates and with a hessian bag of ingredients down by the side in preparation for Grindcore Cake Makers’ set. The clue is in the name. And they sure as hell pack a lot into their set. Samples lifted from sources like Brasseye and American Psycho, referencing cake and gratuitous brutality, run between the songs, which are considerably shorter than the spaces in between them. The songs themselves are sub-two-minute explosive, violent assaults, propelled by a drum machine cranked up to 200pm. Meanwhile, men with stockings on their heads scream profanities and thrash blistering noise, while the ban’s third member whips up buttercream icing and distributes cake to the audience. The fact he’s working with a plugged-in blender while wearing an apron and a stocking on his head in the middle of such mayhem is truly terrifying. 13 minutes later, they’re gone, leaving nothing but feedback and one hell of a mess on the floor.

Grindcore Cake Makers: deliver exactly what the name suggests

And then there’s上下顛倒罪人的地獄. Drummer (and event organiser) Dan Gott set up his kit facing toward the stage, in the middle of the room. Meanwhile, it may have been a supposedly Christmas-themed event, but Hallowe’en style blood-spattered shirts and bandaged faces, drag remains (they share a guitarist with Puddin’s) and anything goes as chaos reigns during their intense and truly insane performance. It’s anarchy from beginning to end. Amidst the smashed guitars and splurged cake, there are some songs of sorts, aggressive blasts of ear-bleeding, blastbeat driven noise.

上下顛倒罪人的地獄: Carnage

The truth is, it’s hard to really know what the fuck’s going on, and I haven’t witnessed such carnage since Baby Godzilla devastated The Fulford Arms in York a little over a year ago (and before that, when the same band and various supports wrought havoc in November 2012). Somewhere between performance art and a riot disguised as a gig, this is the kind of performance that only takes place every once in a while, and serves as a reminder of why grass-roots, small-venue gigs are so important. The expensive ticket, large capacity venues may host bands people are familiar with, but there’s no substitute for the buzz of a wildly unpredictable, completely in-yer-face show like this.

上下顛倒罪人的地獄: Mayhem and devastation

Fox & Newt, Leeds, 8^th December 2015

Christopher Nosnibor

In many ways, Tom Morris is the man who got me into reviewing again after some years out, and I’ve been a follower of Her Name is Calla’s career since their 2006 tour with I Like Trains (or, indeed iLiKETRAiNS as they were then). However, despite having also followed Tom’s solo career, which has seen him release a prodigious volume of material under the name T E Morris (and not only does this material include albums and Eps, but a film score, a novel, and accompanying soundtrack), I had yet to witness one of his solo shows. It would have therefore been criminal to have missed his last one.

Having only recently been introduced to the work of Bad Owl, I’ve swiftly learned the duo behind the name have a knack for booking and promoting gigs that not only feature high-quality lineups, but also feel more like proper events than run-of-the-mill gigs, and tonight is no exception. The Christmas present included in the £5 ticket price is a perfect example. It feels like a DVD…

The Fox & Newt is a new venue to me, and it’s a new favourite immediately on arrival: the beer, the bar staff, the venue space, the sound… It’s hard to fault the place.

And so I’m settled at a table in a nice spot for the set of Andy Crowder, performing as Piles of Clothes. It’s an enjoyable, unprentious acoustic set consisting of nice, introspective and metaphor-laden songs, delivered with self-effacing humour.

Fran Minney is immediately notable for her hair, but this is soon overshadowed by her reflective, personal songs, and above all, her quite outstandingly powerful voice. Hers is a style built on contrast, as delicate, reflective lyrics and delicate- and also dynamic –guitar playing provide the vehicle for her strong vocals. If I were to be critical, I’d say that the notes-per-bar quota stretches a little too readily into territory that is, at times, a bit Christina, but her voice is also noteworthy for its deeper tones and some grit and, truth bee told, belting rock leanings. I found myself torn. Honest, sincere, for sure, and with clear commercial potential, I couldn’t help but feel if this unpolished talent could be a shade ‘X-Factor’. Many would, of course, disagree. No matter, she has a charming, down-to-earth demeanour, some nice tunes, a strong voice, and a lot going for her.

Fran Minney

Thomas Ragsdale was one of the main reasons for turning up tonight. While his set effectively draws on the mood and fabric of his recordings, he’s by no means simply ‘playing the songs’ from his releases to date. Given that his solo work has been represented by a pair of soundtracks, it’s fitting that there are strong filmic qualities to the music of his live sets. What’s perhaps more surprising is that the visuals which accompany the performance are little more than projected patterns of light. And yet it works well, because too much by way of moving pictures or other visual stimulus, would likely detract from the music.

Thomas Ragsdale

As it is, Ragsdale’s crackle-soaked evocations, paired with retina-twitching, flickering visuals resonate within the subconscious, building layers which unfurl. Before he begins, he describes what will follow as ‘grim’, but this is rather disingenuous. The shadows and darkness are interspersed with moments of almost overwhelming grace and irrepressible beauty as he builds the set towards a climax where The Cure meet Tim Hecker.

Tom Morris took a gamble with his t-shirt, but no-one’s here to check his sartorial choices. They’re here to hear his songs; those hushed, contemplative acoustic songs which have stood apart from his work with Her Name is Calla, and he opens the set with ‘Survivor Guilt’ from his second EP, 2011’s ‘An Ocean is Enough to Love’.

T E Morris

For all of the anguish and the portent the songs are imbued with, and the fact they are by turned gloomy and tinged with despair, there’s beauty and light, too. Moreover, Tom’s performance is completely without pretence. He’s humble, and disarmingly open. He talks about the difficult personal circumstances that compelled him to perform solo in the first place, his lack of ability as a pianist, and his love of Lego. As an artist, Morris very much wears his heart on his sleeve, although combines this with more oblique lyrical turns and some magnificently understated guitar playing.

‘Long Distance Runner’, which was originally recorded as a Her Name is Calla track and released on the ridiculously limited cassette which accompanied some copies of The Heritage also serve to remind that Morris has a great voice, capable of hitting unexpected high notes to haunting effect.

Tom’s acoustic guitar is augmented by the violin of HNIC’s Sophie Green for a couple of songs mid-set, as well as the additional vocals of Kerry Ramsey, one half of the Bad Owl setup. Her delicate vocals are well-suited to both the material and Morris’ voice, and varying the arrangements in this way sees the hour-long set pass far too quickly.

T E Morris

‘I Am Gone, I Am Gone, I Am Gone’ is hushed, low, moody, and the set’s closer, ‘Your Life in Pictures’ is a tense epic that builds and burns with the drama of Her Name is Calla at their best. It’s a powerful sign off, although it’s hard to feel too distraught on leaving the venue. It’s been a celebration of a significant period of Tom Morris’ musical career, with many familiar and friendly faces in attendance. More than that, the knowledge that he’ll be focusing his creative powers exclusively on Her Name is Calla, who have been finding outstanding form of late, gives reason to look to the future with anticipation.

Christopher Nosnibor

As something of a newcomer to Chelsea Wolfe’s work, having discovered her through her latest album, and having since heard many positive comments on her live performances, I was eager to witness one for myself, and to experience the impact of the tracks from Abyss in person.

There’s not a lot to say about support act Masakichi: for all the layered, atmospheric guitar work and enticing intros, they fail to really present anything beyond mediocre – and by design, commercial – folk-tinged rock. Halfway through the fourth song, they amped it up and hinted that they’re capable of much more, but on the strength of this outing, they prefer to play it safe and likely have an eye on the mass market with their Cranberries meets Warpaint stylings, the hints of ethereal celtic-folk seemingly an affectation rather than a blood-deep influence.

Masakichi

I find myself wondering while waiting for the main event if the guy and girl to my left are a couple or brother and sister. The place is packing out fast now, and a hipster couple bustle their way to the front and stand next to me. He has the obligatory beard and slicked-back short back and sides, his denim jacket sleeves rolled just so to reveal the cuff of his plaid shirt, turned up to reveal the sleeve tattoo which encroached to the lower reaches of his wrist; her vest top displaying a similar array of tattoos, plus designs on her thumb and the back of her hand, weighted with chunky rings. There were a fair few such clones in the crowd, although it was pleasing to observe a fairly broad demographic more generally.

The regular PA mix gives way to some dramatic choral and orchestral music, building the drama nicely before bang on nine-thirty, the backing band, led by drummer Dylan Fujioka, walked onto the dimly-lit stage. Striking up and unleashing a thunderous sound, it’s a mighty intro as Chelsea Wolfe herself appears to head the sonic demolition of Abyss’ opener, ‘Carrion Flowers’. Immersed in a deep smog of gut-churning bass violent bursts of noise, I’m reminded of Swans and Cranes: the jarring force of the instrumentation coupled with Chelsea’s voice, which reaches the parts other vocalists don’t even know exist, combine to create an experience that’s spine-chilling.

Chelsea is an incredible, towering presence, and not just physically (she is tall, and wears four-inch heels, and twists her ankles in some crazy contortions while playing the guitar). Her voice is something else, barely of this world. And when she ditches the guitar in favour of a pair of maracas and stalks the stage dangerously, as she does during the languorous ‘House of Metal’, it’s utterly compelling. Yet when she speaks between songs – which she does only very rarely – she’s barely audible.

Chelsea Wolfe

That the set draws heavily on Abyss is something I’m certainly not about to complain about. ‘We Hit A Wall’ is noteworthy for some mammoth drumming, which dominates the sound over screeds of overloading guitar bursts. The tumultuous percussion counterpoints beautiful, soaring dramatics of Chelsea’s vocals again on ‘Maw’, perhaps the closest thing to a pop song in the set. That said, ‘Iron Moon’ is one of the most magnificently doomy epics you’re likely to hear. The quiet / loud dynamic still works like nothing else when well executed, and as she belts out the colossal chorus, I melt.

It’s all about the contrasts, of course: to paraphrase from a previous album title, Chelsea and her band channel beauty and pain, and moreover, the beauty in pain. The lighting is minimal, and in terms of performance, there isn’t much to see: and yet as a show, it’s utterly transfixing. It’s not only Chelsea herself, but her band: they’re not simply playing the songs, but channelling everything that the songs contain.

Zola Jesus would also stand as a fitting comparison in some respects. ‘After the Fall’ explodes in a deluge of overdriven bass, and ‘Survive’ whips up a maelstrom of utterly devastating proportions. Again and again, Fujioka’s drumming stands out, the dynamism of his playing equalled by his force. ‘Colour of Blood’ runs thick with a dense, sludgy bass, again standing as the perfect contrast with Wolfe’s hauntingly evocative vocals.

Chelsea Wolfe

The encore concludes with the dolorous ‘Pale on Pale’ from 2011’s Apokalypsis, and it’s truly hypnotic. Chelsea leaves the stage while the rest of the band wring the final squalls of feedback from their instruments amidst a crashing thrash of cymbals. The rapturous applause is well deserved.

Some nights everything comes together. In a venue that’s not only my favourite my miles, but ones that’s received manifold plaudits and is loved by all who attend, not to mention the bands who play there, an outstanding artist played an outstanding set to a respectful and abundantly appreciative – and diverse – audience, with immaculate sound in every corner of the venue. It doesn’t get much better than this.