Aural Aggravation

Christopher Nosnibor

Killing Joke’s renaissance may have begun with their eponymous 2003 album, but they’ve shown little sign of slowing the momentum since. It’s fitting: they’ve always been the band of the apocalypse, and as humanity under global capitalism seems set on accelerating toward its self-made demise and ultimate destruction of the planet, so Killing Joke are the band to provide the soundtrack. If latest album Pylon is a little more accessible, melodic and less full-on than since of its recent(ish) predecessors, it certainly isn’t a sign they’re softening. And while there are infinite angry, harsh bands out there, Killing Joke still offer a unique proposition – more articulate, both lyrically and musically than pretty much any other band you’ll find railing against the system and the man, their brand of heavy isn’t about raging overdrive, but something more impenetrable, industrial. And it’s live where the full force of their sound really comes across.

Never mind saving the oldies for the end: the set opens with ‘The Wait’ before they get swiftly to the new material, hammering out the bleak ‘Autonomous Zone’. Immediately, the power of the original lineup is apparent: they’re tight, assured and seriously loud. ‘Eighties’ is also thrown in early, providing some light relief and cause for a fair few down the front to bounce around like it’s still 1985 (and yes, I was nine when this album was released: seeing them on Top of the Pops was my first introduction to the band, and even then, I was intrigued and scared in equal measure).

Like another of my all-time guitar heroes, Swans’ Norman Westberg, Geordie Walker doesn’t go for heroics. No fancy fretwork. No posturing. As unassuming a performer as you’re likely to see, strolling – it’s not even a pacing, that would suggest some kind of agitation – a small space near the edge of the stage, he peels off layer upon layer of churning, sheet-metal guitar noise. Its power lies in the sheer density of the sound. Youth, sporting a crumpled white blazer, buttoned, and a sun visor over which tufts of thinning, matted hair stick, is similarly un-showy in his presence, rocking back and forth and grinding out bowel-shaking basslines that weld perfectly to Paul Ferguson’s thunderous drumming. I ponder, briefly, the number of albums the members of this band are credited in some capacity, Youth in particular with his vast catalogue of production and remixing credits. I also can’t help but be amazed that a band comprised of four middle-aged blokes (and a younger dude on synths) should be one of the most vital and relevant acts I’ll get to see this year.

Jaz Coleman provides the focal point, of course. Sporting one of his customary boiler suits, hair grown long, he is the embodiment of the manic messiah. It’s often hard to tell if he’s grinning or twisting his craggy face into a terrifying grimace – both are equally scary, and he doesn’t do between-song chat. He’s wired, dangerous, focused. He doesn’t sing the songs, but channels them. He is the virus. He is a ball of fire, coming in from the void. And yes, ‘Asteroid’ is fierce, relentless, explosive. But then, the set’s brimming with highlights from the back-catalogue. Extremities, Dirt and Various Repressed Emotions has long been a favourite of mine, and to hear ‘Money is Not Our God’ attacked with such ferocity was truly exhilarating, and ‘The Beautiful Dead’ was also a welcome inclusion. Meanwhile, ‘Exorcism’ was nothing short of immense, the absolute definition of catharsis. ‘Wardance’ and flipside ‘Psssyche’ inevitably pleased the faithful, the latter wrapping up the main set.

They’d saved ‘Love Like Blood’ for the encore (having seemingly dropped it for a number of previous shows, if the info on setlist.fm is accurate), but not until they’d powered through ‘Turn to Red’. Wrapping up with a powerhouse rendition of ‘Pandemoneum’, the refrain ‘I can see tomorrow / I can see the world today’ resonating as vindication of the band’s existence and continued rejuvenation. Coleman and Co aren’t sitting back smugly saying ‘I told you so,’ and instead remain intent on spewing vitriol against capitalist greed and environmental destruction, but the pre-millennium tension of their 90s releases seems devastatingly prescient in same the way JG Ballard’s texts portrayed the future by scrutinising the present. That future is now upon us.

The Basement, York, 17^th October 2015

Christopher Nosnibor (Text)

Sam Himsworth (Images)

So I turn up a song or two into Ola Szmidt’s set and am immediately impressed. Accompanied by a bearded bassist, her delicate songs bring a new dimension to the well-established loop-layering style. With acoustic guitar, harmonies and subtle rhythms these are ambitious songs delivered with poise, the understated performance placing the spotlight on the material over the duo on stage.

Actor are the reason I’m here. Having launched themselves with a compelling performance at the Brudenell as part of Live at Leeds in May, the trio have been making waves with debut single ‘Feline’.

The Cure meets Kate Bush poptones of ‘Uppercut’ opens the set, and after kicking out one of their strongest songs second (sadly its title escapes me), I wonder if they’ve shot their load prematurely. But no: new single ‘Baby Cries’ is another slice of evocative, drifting post-punk dream pop defined by crystalline guitars and a rolling rhythm. Louisa is pristine, but her dialogue with the audience? She seems, unusually, stilted, and doesn’t quite build the connection in the way she’s very much able to. ‘Swim’ has been revamped, slowed down, and feels a shade lifeless, although largely it suffers from Chris’ guitar being too low in the mix – and perched at the extreme right of the stage and toward the back, it seems his contribution is somehow diminished, or as if he’s trying to step further back into the shadows to allow all of the focus to be placed on Louisa. It’s fairly clear that this is how they’re being marketed, and fair play: however, as compelling a front woman Louisa is, I can’t help but feel it does the other band members, who rarely even feature in the band photos, something of a disservice.

Actor

Polo are very much about the synths: dark, reverby synth pop is their thing, and they do it well. It’s a slick, sleek, dark but shiny, obsidian sound. It’s an extremely marketable package, not least due to Kat Mchugh who’s utterly faultless. They’re a band out of time, but their anachronism is very now. The wooden click of drum sticks before the last song seemed incongruous with their sleek synthesized sound. Think perhaps a bit Maps, a bit Cults, but stripped back think and stark. Think Warpaint. Think Portishead without the nostalgia-evoking surface noise or noir sensibility. You could – and might hope to – see them on Jools Holland. For all that, or perhaps because of it, I struggled to relate. Perhaps again it was end of tour fatigue, the venue, or just the night.

Polo

For all that, all three acts have unquestionably got the songs and the presence to go far, and while tonight may not have been the best showcase, they all very much deserve to.

Christopher Nosnibor

When it comes to writing about music, I often do so as a fan first and foremost, and this is particularly true of The Sisters of Mercy, a band I’ve seen more times than I can count, and whose comparatively slight body of work accounts for a disproportionate segment of my record collection. But I do appreciate that The Sisters of Mercy probably shouldn’t exist in 2015. It’s now a full quarter century since their last album, and their sporadic tours are often met with a mixed reception. The press don’t go near (although in fairness, the press aren’t invited or welcome). They may have some of the most dedicated fans you’re likely to meet, but those selfsame fans are often amongst the band’s harshest critics, and the last 25 years have seen forums packed with debate over how Eldritch’s voice is shot, how the reworkings of old classics are inferior, how the new material doesn’t hold up against the old, how whatever lineup is touring lacks this, that, or the other. But of course, it’s because of those fans that they do still exist in 2015, and several of the shows on this five-date UK tour were sold out in advance.

Some of the ever-critical fans may have questioned the choice of support: on the face of it, Sabbath-inspired riffers Black Moth aren’t a very ‘Sisters’ band. But The Sisters of Mercy have a long tradition of playing with incongruous acts, both in their early years as a support themselves, and latterly as headliners. With Black Moth, well, it’s probably a Leeds thing: Eldritch has never lost sight of the band’s roots in the city. Moreover, Black Moth are an outstanding live act, and at tonight’s homecoming show, they own the stage. New guitarist Federica has slotted in nicely, and the barrage of riffs hits with full force. Harriet’s performance – both in terms of vocals and presentation – is hard to fault, making for a strong set.

Black Moth

A looping electro track – none other than ‘Shut the Fuck Up’ from the Sisters / Not Sisters ambient techno album ‘Go Figure’ by SSV – prefaces the emergence of three shadows on stage amidst a dense smog and blinding white, pink and blue lights, to a jubilant cheer. Jesus loves the Sisters, and so does Leeds. They open in vintage style with ‘First and Last and Always’. It’s a rousing start, and it’s immediately apparent there’s an energy not seen in a long time. ‘Ribbons’ is swiftly dispatched and the customary ‘Doctor Jeep / Detonation Boulevard’ medley gets a good thrashing. If ‘Crash and Burn’ suggests business as usual, then business is good, and fact ‘Body Electric’ gets an airing, immediately followed by ‘Alice’, means things step up a gear remarkably early.

Eldritch doesn’t so much struggle with the high notes as avoid them completely, but those who decry the loss of his vocal range fail to take into account the fact he never really could sing especially well in the first place, at least not in technical terms. I’d suggest he’s simply learned it’s a lesser aural affront to go low or otherwise sing within a ‘safe’ range than hit duff notes all over the place (and let’s face it, the countless bootlegs of the band’s ‘classic’ era circa 83-85 attest to myriad howlers, not to mention missed cues, drop-outs and general ropiness on behalf of not only the front man but the band as a whole). In fact, tonight found him in fine voice, that resonant baritone rumbling out from the fog while you wonder if he’s lurking toward the back of the stage or actually having a crafty fag somewhere in the wings (I suspect both happened at various points during the set).

The Sisters of Mercy

‘Summer’ was always one of the strongest of the unreleased songs and tonight its lean, wiry and taut in execution. Meanwhile, ‘Arms’ feels more developed, and the band sound more confident playing it than on previous outings. In fact, while Ben and Chris respectively pose and bounce around and Eldritch prowls the stage, they seem not only to be on top form, but to be enjoying themselves.

The surprises and rarities invariably provide the highlights of any Sisters show, and ‘No Time to Cry’ and ‘Blood Money’ played back to back – and done justice – is definitely cause for excitement. A boisterous take on Larry Willis’ ‘I’m a Police Car’ provides the customary cuckoo cover, but it’s the pairing of ‘Valentine’ and an instrumental guitar-led rendition of ‘Jihad’ (‘I have nothing more to say on the matter,’ Eldritch says before leaving Ben and Chris to it.

The Sisters of Mercy

“You’re gonna hate this”, Andrew forewarns us before a synthesized piano tinkles the intro to ‘1959’. And then… they play ‘1959’. Reworked as a slow-building power ballad. Yet for all that, quietly contained yet quavering emotion of the studio version, is retained in the vocal delivery – before a big guitar break even Jim Steinman would consider audacious, and Eldritch cracks a smile as he revels in the glorious absurdity of it all.

Where do you go after an encore containing ‘Temple of Love’ and ‘This Corrosion’? Home? Not the Sisters, who return for a second encore consisting of the most muscular take on ‘Lucretia, My Reflection’ I’ve witnessed in all the years I’ve seen them, ahead of and an all-guns-blazing version of ‘Vision Thing’ and a stormingly ferocious ‘More’ to finish.

Instead of rushing from the stage, they hang around, hugging and waving, with even the nurse to the Doktor coming to the front to receive the ovation. It’s overtly rock, and on any other night you’d be forgiven for thinking it was just another ironic gesture, a parodic posture derived from the cliché canon the Sisters so love to plunder. But while such camaraderie simply isn’t in the Sisters’ repertoire, it looks and feels absolutely genuine, Eldritch cracking yet another grin. And rightly so: having turned in one of the best performances in some 20 years, he’s got a lot to smile about.