Posts Tagged ‘Live Review’

Christopher Nosnibor

A week ago, buying a ticket to see four metal bands for a tenner in a tiny basement venue seemed like a good idea. But then yet another heatwave happened, and arriving at the Mickelgate Social – something of a hipster bar just feet inside the city walls on what used to the York’s most notorious street for bars and nightclubs frequented by stag and hen dos and townies and other twats, which has gone rather more upmarket in recent years – damp and uncomfortable, I find myself questioning my sanity. The doors are 7:30, and I arrive some time after, but Tame The Savage are still soundchecking at 7:45 and Onion Terror are still to go. Provided I don’t collapse from heat exhaustion, I assume things can only improve. And, for the most part, they do.

Onion Terror are a duo: guitar, vocals, and drums and other backing off a phone. The guitarist is playing through a 5-watt practice amp that feeds back a lot, while the vocalist charges and leans and squats, alternately bellowing and growling, while sporting a pint balaclava. They clearly don’t intend to be taken seriously, but they are seriously good fun. Their eleven-minute set is a mash of all kinds of metal – primarily some mangled kind of grindcore, but with purposefully cheap-sounding drums and samples galore – consisting mostly vocal snippets about onions. It’s loud and it’s messy and makes for a great start to the night.

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Onion Terror

Tame the Savage trade in filthy punk, somewhat in the vein of Anti-Nowhere League. But what sets them apart from your meat-and-potatoes punk is the way the bass – played by the lead vocalist – carries the most weight, doing a lot of work on the upper half of the fretboard and the higher strings, and essentially playing it like a lead guitar, with a lot of mid and some distortion. But then, when he does drop to the lower octaves on the bottom strings, the impact is immense, a thick, rumbling groove melding with the hefty percussion. And the drummer looks like he’s having the time of his life.

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Tame the Save

Hella Bore’s bassist, wearing a facemask, baseball cap, and hoodie with the hood up – the dude must have been liquid inside that getup – approached me just before their set and requested no photos, so you’ll have to imagine him, and the singer, a stocky, shaven-headed guy with a waxed moustache, in a wifebeater and too-tight cutoff blue jeans shorts. Hmm. Perhaps this was why they didn’t want photos. The drummer, bearded and with plaited pigtails (when he removes the knitted balaclava with floppy rabbit ears) makes a nice addition to the visual. I’d like to report that they sound better than they look, and they do – although it’s marginal. It’s not that they can’t play: they evidently can. But what they play is like a Nu-metal Rage Against the Machine with Al Jorgensen’s vocals roaring over the top. The material is pretty leaden, the lyrics aren’t great and overall… It’s understandable why a large chunk of the audience take the opportunity to get some air during their set.

In contrast, Miško Boba have both their look and sound absolutely nailed, and just keep on getting better. They’re a cohesive unit, and each member brings something specific, but it’s in the way they come together which is where their strength lies. During the slow, slugging riff sections, they all bang heads in perfect union, the gut-churning five-string bass underpinning the twin guitar assault. At the back, Leviathan’s powerhouse drumming very much drives everything along, but it’s apparent that they all recognise that in Kanopa they have a formidable and compelling front woman. Visually, she’s impressive, a classic horror scene, a walking gorefest, appearing to have had her eyes torn out, and her arms are streaked with sanguine fluid. But this is nothing compared to the vocal performance, which is nothing short of spine-quivering, blood-curdling, demonic roar, a desperate purgatorial scream.

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Miško Boba

They just get heavier and more fierce as the set progresses, and seem to grow in confidence as well as intensity. The set may only feature seven songs, but it makes for a truly obliterative forty-five minutes, and any longer you’d probably feel your skull start to cave in. Tonight’s performance, which is pretty big on new material, is something else, and exemplifies why they deserve to be on a label, and to have PR pushing for their (inter)national exposure. This is a band who are taking black metal – and Lithuanian metal – to a place which warrants appreciation. If you want your metal black, you’ll find none more black than Miško Boba .

Christopher Nosnibor

Just over a year ago, York had the fortune to host the first ever live show of Light of Eternity, the new band led – from the back – by drumming titan Paul Ferguson, founding member of Killing Joke, who can also boast Warrior Soul and Murder Inc on his resumé. And now, we also have the honour of being the end point of this year’s UK tour. Only a few days ago, they played the legendary punk festival that is Rebellion, and since that first performance in front of around 150 people, they’ve toured as the support for Ministry, too. We’ll come to just how much they’ve evolved since that debut shortly.

It’s not exactly rammed tonight, particularly early doors – and they are early doors, being at 6:30 and the first act on at 7 – probably because a fair few are still at Rebellion and Bloodstock only finished last night, and consequently, Dollface Reunion start their set to a very sparsely populated room. If they’re disappointed by this, they don’t show it. Having caught them in Leeds supporting Spear of Destiny in May my enthusiasm for seeing them again so soon was only middling. I was beginning to have flashbacks to the two to three-month spell in 2000 / 2001 when I saw Sona Fariq supporting pretty much every fucking band I went to see, not least of all twice in a week when I saw The Sisters of Mercy in Glasgow and then Nottingham. And they were abysmal every single fucking time. It turns out that I simply hadn’t been in the mood for Dollface Reunion when I saw them last time, and they likely suffered from having been squeezed on as late additions before Cheeks, who were nothing short of a revelation.

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Dollface Reunion

Reassessing them tonight, I appreciated them a whole lot more. As the name suggests, they’re a reunited version of 90s alt rock act Dollface, and as such, their set is largely culled from their sole album release, 1995’s Giant. Their third song, ‘Rockstars’, which was a single back in ’94, bears a lead guitar line reminiscent of The Cult, and they most definitely rock. ‘Spaceship’ is announced as ‘a song about a spaceship’, and late on, ‘Metropolis’ storms home as a stomper that sit between New Model Army and The Levellers. Only much better than The Levellers.

On the eve of this brief tour, Light of Eternity announced the addition of James OZ Bowey on bass. This means that Fred Schreck no longer has to multitask with covering bass and vocal duties, and it does make a difference, not least of all visually. Instead of being rooted to the spot (not that there was space to move at The Fulford Arms: Ferguson’s kit pretty much occupied the whole stage), he’s got the freedom to move, not just about the stage, but with arm gestures – he’s actually pretty expressive on that front – making for a much more visual performance overall. I’d even go s far as to say that, liberated from the bass, he’s quite a compelling front man.

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Light of Eternity

Bowey has found his groove straight away, and they are so tight, his thick bass sound underpinning Pauly Williams’ thick, churning riffs. The guitar sound is bright but dense. Predictably, the drumming is immense. And casting my mind back to that first show, Ferguson started the set a little loose, proving that even the most seasoned musicians sometimes need some time to bed into something new. This time around… everything is nailed down tight form the first beat. All the rehearsals in the world are no substitute for time spent on stage, and the benefit of the road miles these guys have put in this last year is evident from the off. It’s true that the Killing Joke comparisons will forever stay with them, not just on account of Ferguson, but Williams’ taut, compressed guitar sound – but Schreck’s vocals d bring something different, and the chug and churn is often closer to the sound of Murder Inc., and this is nowhere more perfectly evidenced than on ‘Worlds Collide’.

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Light of Eternity

And to top it, they’ve managed to write some new material, too. Last time around, they played the twelve songs they had – the two EPs and a further EP’s worth – and were done. Tonight, we get new material, and launching the final third of the twelve song set, new song ‘Sycophant’ rocks particularly hard and they really seem to step thing up from hereon in.

The set list still only shows twelve songs, though, and expectations for an encore are slim – but they do indeed return, and kick off a three-song encore with a throbbing rendition of ‘Dark Hope’. They slow things with the atmospheric ‘Nebula’, and the fact that there are such solid cuts from the first two EPs that they can keep in reserve from a main set that fills an hour and a quarter is in itself impressive. They conclude with ‘Explode’ – which still sounds like a blend of Ministry’s ‘N.W.O’ and Therapy? circa 1994, in the best possible way – to my ears. It kicks ass, too.

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Light of Eternity

Having seen Killing Joke in venues closer to 2,000 in capacity, and Murder Inc supporting The Sisters of Mercy at Birmingham NEC (a show which is featured on the second disc of the reissue of their eponymous album, under the title Locate, Subvert, Terminate), to witness this band at such close proximity – The Crescent has a capacity of 350) is nothing short of mind-blowing, and while writing up my (painfully sparse) notes, I learn that there are people in the audience who have travelled from Sweden for this. it’s not hard to understand why. These guys are living legends – but despite a major-league support slot, playing 1,500 capacity spaces, they’re still building things up from the bottom in grassroots venues. This is positively heroic. And as for tonight’s set… there simply aren’t enough superlatives.

Christopher Nosnibor

By the early 80s, the power of punk had mostly petered out. We were very much in the post-punk era, and most of the first wave of punk acts had called it a day or slunk into obscurity. And yet The Damned, whose debut, ‘New Rose’ was the first single by a British punk band, released their most commercially successful album in 1982 in the form of Strawberries, and their continued success through the 80s was largely attributable to their ongoing evolution, leaning into the gothic – and even the overtly goth – style. It was Strawberries which saw Roman Jugg join their ever-expanding family tree to contribute keyboard solos, and when Captain Sensible left the band a couple of years later, Roman stepped into the role of guitarist. So the pitch that they’re ‘playing songs from the back catalogue as they were originally meant to be performed’ might sound like quite a claim, but since the set does predominantly focus on songs from Phantasmagoria and Anything, which Jugg was involved in writing, he’s certainly got grounds. As for older songs, well he toured with the band long enough to be considered an authority.

Considering Gary Numan is playing the Peace Hall just up the road in Halifax tonight, there’s a respectable turnout, and deservedly so. The question of the impact of these large outdoor summer gigs in addition to festivals and their impact on regular gigs, particularly for those at smaller, and specifically grass roots venues may be one to debate in more detail separately, but so far this year it does feel as if the effect may be tipping towards the negative. These events seem to be as much social as musical, everyone plastering their social media with blurry pica and wobbly videos with shit audio to prove that they were there – that they’d forked out £60 to stand a mile from the stage and listen to people chat while slopping exorbitantly-priced crap lager over their own trainers. And fine, each to their own of course, but there’s no trickle-down here, and they’re not a gateway to grassroots events when people I know would often attend the small-venue gigs can’t make it because they’re either at one of these big gigs, or are tired / skint as a result of having been to one – or three. And again, is a £60 gig six times better than a £10 gig? Obviously it’s impossible to quantify, but I think it’s fair to say there’s a point at which the experience grows incrementally less enjoyable as the scale of the show increases. Somewhat ironically, The Damned, still fronted by Dave Vanian, and with Paul Gray on bass and Rat Scabies behind the kit, are playing at both The Peace Hall and Scarborough Open Air Theatre this summer, the latte as support to American rock supergroup Hollywood Vampires (Alice Coooper and Johnny Depp, with Aerosmith’s Joe Perry), which sounds nothing short of hellish. It highlights just how much the nostalgia market has changed the nature of things: I saw The Damned in the middle of the afternoon at Guilfest circa 2003, and they didn’t even sell out the 200-capacity Fibbers in York in 2005 or 2006. They were great, mind you, but felt like they were a band that worked best in a space with a low ceiling and where the front row is within spitting distance, literally.

Boggis Fringe are up first. Having risen from the ashes of dark post-punk combo Fatherfigures in 2024, following the death of their guitarist, Boggis Fringe straddle the space between old-school punks playing old-school punk, and some quite taut post-punk action. Tonight, the power trio are once again expanded to a four-piece, with the addition of Erin on second guitar, who also provides backing vocals and covers drumming duties for a few songs in the middle of the set. As we soon learn, this is because drummer Chris is still recovering from a knee injury, and isn’t yet back to strength to manage the entirety of the set. Add to the instrument swapping some guitar cut outs (pesky pedals and leads), the feel is a shade chaotic, but it in no way detracts, and if anything, makes it feel more authentically punk. Singer Doug plays like he hates his guitar even more than life itself, and gets bonus points for the most audaciously bad wordplay joke I’ve heard in a while.

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Boggis Fringe

I was rather underwhelmed the last time I saw Moose Knuckle in York at the back end of 2024. They felt sluggish and low-energy, and worst of all, entitled, as if they believed the audience should put in more work, despite their own apparent lack of effort. It seems I caught them on an off night. They really give it some on this hometown outing, powering through nine songs on half an hour. New song ‘Hard to Kill’, which lands mid-set, has strong hints of The Ramones. Their cover of The Prodigy’s ‘Breathe’ (mistitled on the setlist as Breath) is still the best thing in the set, mind, and of the originals, the squelchy funk rage of ‘Old Flame’ is a clear standout, although another new song, a grungy beast that’s called ‘Do It On My Own’ is a close second.

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Moose Knuckle

Roman Jugg has assembled quite a band for this latest tour centered around the songs he wrote while with The Damned in the 80s, notably absorbing garage duo Dave and Fi Dukale, aka The Tuppenny Bunters (interchangeably) on drums, keyboards, and vocals. They’ve been on my radar for a while, and although this doesn’t strictly qualify as seeing them as such, it does still sort of count as a twofer. Pat MacNamara is rocking turnups worthy of Kirk Brandon and sideburns that would impress Neil Young, and does a mean bass face throughout the set. Meanwhile Roman himself and guitarist Paul Bedford keep things low-key and keep the focus on the songs, which they bang out with admirable proficiency.

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Roman Jugg Band

The setlist is superb, and apart from ‘Elouise’ not featuring, is more or less a selection of my favourite Damned songs. ‘I Just Can’t be Happy Today’ drops fourth in a rammed set. ‘Edward the Bear’ goes down a storm before they’re back to plundering from Strawberries.

Dave and Fiona switch drums and keyboards for a bit, and they blast through a high-octane rendition of ‘Ignite’. Their styles are quite different, with Fiona bringing more swing and a fluid stroke that contrasts with Dave’s method, and this shift gives the set a certain dynamic. ‘Grimly Fiendish’ – probably the first song by The Damned I heard growing up still sounds ace – as if The Kinks had penned a cabaret goth tune. Dark but poppy and great fun. As the set moves into its final stages around the hour mark, they kick it up a couple of gears and raid the early singles for blistering takes on ‘Smash it Up’ and ‘Neat Neat Neat’. There’s barely a minute’s pause, during which only half the band actually vacate the stage before they encore with a hundred-mile-an hour ‘New Rose’ which delivers a final injection of adrenaline for the night.

Sod your social media ‘I was there’ big-names-in-massive-venues shows: this is still, and will forever be, what live music is really about.

Christopher Nosnibor

Did I ever mention how much I fucking hate ABBA? No? Well, I really, really fucking hate ABBA, and pretty much all covers of ABBA songs too, with the exception of The Sisters of Mercy’s cover of ‘Gimme Gimme Gimme’ which made the set a few times in 1984 just after Wayne Hussey joined. To provide a measure of just how much I fucking hate ABBA, just after university, my then girlfriend and I got a flat, and took her best mate on as a lodger. She loved ABBA. So much so that ABBA Gold was pretty much, the only CD she owned. And she played it all the time. That’s no exaggeration. We’re talking legitimate grounds for eviction or even murder here. So when I upgraded my stereo, instead of selling the old one – which would have fetched a good hundred and fifty quid, which was some wedge back in ’98 – I gave it to her for her room on the proviso that she would never play ABBA in the living room ever again. The rationale for this anecdote will make sense later on.

Meanwhile, when I took this gig on, I hadn’t appreciated that the band I was here for – Dismiss – were only the support, and it blows my mind that a band with some kind of following, however moderate here, would come from Greece to support a local covers band in York. We’ll come back to this presently, too.

My introduction to Too Late for Gods was a pub gig on the other side of town, and my reaction was very much mixed. So, seeing them on a proper stage, through a full PA, and without the element of surprise means I’m in a better position to properly assess their skills.

Their first song is a straight up post-hardcore metal rager, the five-string bass bringing significant depth and power. It’s the grunge leanings which shine through during the next couple of songs, and it’s very soon apparent what a difference a decent mix can make to how songs come across. There are some meh punk pop / emo cuts mid-set, but they’re performed with guts and gusto, which carries them. Their drummer is a solid asset, too, a strong player with a big personality, bringing dynamics and showmanship, and very much driving the band. The penultimate song of the set has a hint of Placebo and a strong hook. They look comfortable in this setting, and give the impression that they would deliver in significantly larger venues, too.

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Too Late for Gods

I’m here for Dismiss, and woah! They are all the energy straight out of the traps. My notes are scant: I’m too busy trying to catch my breath. They play hard rock with a punk edge, and they bring the fire, and what’s more, they’re absolutely relentless, powering through fifteen original songs in forty minutes (the setlist indicates that they dropped two from the planned set, too), but it feels like about twenty whiplash-inducing minutes, as they the songs back-to-back. Their singer is a blur of peroxide, the bassist is a spike-studded energy blast, and they make a strong case for the prosecution in the case that women rock harder than men. And if we’re doing touchstones and references, Lita Ford and The Plasmatics and Amyl and the Sniffers are where we’re at. They absolutely fucking slay. You wouldn’t want to go on after them, especially as, judging by the T-shirts on display, a good number of the punters are here for them. And deservedly. They absolutely play their arses off and are nothing short of phenomenal. Not only band of the night, but one of the highlights of the year to date.

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Dismiss

But suddenly, just as Pop Goes Metal take to the stage, the place is rammed from the front to the back. I guess this is telling. Do we talk about covers bands? Should we contemplate guilty pleasures? I wrote about covers bands just the other night – but can’t help but feel differently about covers bands playing village pubs as background, and covers bands playing ‘proper’ venues and headlining over bands playing sets of original material. Like Natalie Imbruglia, I’m torn. It’s great that people are coming out to small venues and supporting live music. But…

I’ve personally never been embarrassed by my appreciation of pop tunes, and I don’t just mean the 80s stuff I grew up with, like Duran Duran and A-Ha. A good tune is a good tune, irrespective of genre. As such, I’m personally comfortable with the fact that Pop Goes Metal start strong with a thunking Nu-metal take on Katy Perry’s ‘I Kissed A Girl’. However, am I comfortable with the principle of what is, in essence, a novelty covers act? While perhaps not as corny as, say, Elvana or Tragedy (the metal Bee gees tribute), they certainly sit within that bracket.

Objectively, Pop Goes Metal do a great job of delivering what they pitch. They bring a brace of chunky guitars melded to a chunky rhythm section, and Emz gives us gutsy vocals, with rasp and power. Britney’s ‘Toxic’ is a solid choice at the front end of the set and works over the more obvious choice of Britney tunes in terms of their sonic and stylistic range. The Dua Lipa and Billie Eilish songs are beyond my ken, but they go down well.

New addition to the set, ‘Umbrella’ is only so-so, and while Emz reads the lyrics from her phone, the song slides into an extended fretwanking solo. Their interpretation of Mark Ronson’s ‘Uptown Funk’ sounds too much like ‘Free Range’ by The Fall crossed with ‘Black Betty’ to be entirely successful, and while ‘Let Me Entertain You’ benefits from a huge chugging break, it’s still a shit song. ‘Toca’s Miracle’ translates from a dance-pop banger to a thunderous disco metal banger, and it would be curmudgeonly not to acknowledge a job well done there.

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Pop Goes Metal

The audience is particularly hyped and vocal, and increasingly so as the night progresses. Emz’s voice starts to go with five songs to go, and by the end she can barely croak between songs, but still belts ‘em out full lungs. ‘Shake it Off’ not only proves I’ve never knowingly heard a song by Taylor Swift, but that perhaps I’m not entirely the target demographic. ‘Sk8er Boi’ comes in pretty much untouched, and Anastacia’s ‘Left Outside Alone’ is a strong tune that it would be hard to go wrong with, and credit where it’s due, they do it justice. And then it’s onto ending on ‘Mama Mia’… just no. No no no no. They’ve crossed the line.

Christopher Nosnibor

In keeping with my (recent) policy of never not writing about a live act I see, I find myself presenting some diaristic notes from my break from reviewing. The plan had been to avoid emails, the Internet, people, and pretty much everything by escaping to Alnmouth for four nights. Historically, I’ve used such holidays as an opportunity to concentrate on some of my fiction or other writing, but instead, I decide to walk and read and decompress for a while. And if this reads more like an extract from my diary than an actual review, that’s because, ultimately, it is. The review element is but a prelude to a ponderance, you might say.

For context, last week marked three and half years since the death of my wife, and some proper time out with our daughter, now 14, and just broken up for the summer holidays, was what was needed. Much as I depend on my routine to an extent – which involves chipping out a review of between 600 and 1,000 words a night, when not out watching bands, it’s certainly work. And you know what they say about work… Well, they say a lot, very little of which is positive. And while we’re here, this isn’t so much a review, as a review as a pretext for an essay of reflection and contemplation.

Alnmouth, while pretty sleepy, is home to no fewer than four pubs / hotels with public bars, and having just last week written about how I’d been missing bands in bars, and having clocked the The Red Lion was hosting a live band on Friday night, decided I should pop down for a last pint or two before the train home on Saturday morning. I expected a naff covers band, and while Millennium Bug are very much a covers band, they weren’t naff. They could certainly play, at least. And their choice of songs was not the obvious.

It must be hard for musicians wanting to play round here. Newcastle has a vibrant scene with an abundance of metal and noise and all sorts, but it’s a different world out here on the coast in a small village that’s a low-key tourist destination, primarily for retirees. You’re not going to get going with a metal band here.

When I set out with Aural Aggravation, the rubric was pretty explicit: music as far from the mainstream as you could possibly get. So why am I now documenting a covers band in a pub? The musical landscape has changed in the last decade, and my focus on the grass roots has developed over this time as things have got more challenging, particularly post-COVID. And I’d contend that you can’t get much further from the mainstream than this.

They’re playing ‘When You Say Nothing At All’ off the bat – as they say. It’s a shit cliché. Most cliché are, though. They forewarn that their set will consist of ‘cheesy nineties and noughties pop songs’, and they’re not kidding. The trio, consisting of acoustic guitar, bass, and minimal drum kit make their way through ‘I Want it That Way’ which I’ve always jokingly said was a song about anal sex, but, on reflection, may be about pegging, and ‘I Miss You’ by Lisa Loeb. They perform a pretty spirited and harmony-laden rendition of ‘Torn’, a passable take on ‘Unwritten’, and a killer version of ‘Genie in a Bottle’ follow. Cher’s ‘Life After Love’ actually sounds better as an acoustic song without the autotune.

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So what’s the thrust here? They’re three forty-something guys playing a local village pub against a barrage of chatter. The applause starts off strong, but diminishes after about three songs as the punters lose interest and the music falls to background. It’s nothing like the volume of talk when I saw BRMC in Leeds last December, but it’s a tough gig. And yet they take it in their stride. No strops, no huffs. It’s simply the gig. And while many musicians aspire to supposedly greater things, they’re clearly enjoying doing this – and when it’s so easy to give up doing anything outside dayjob and family life and whatever, this is certainly better than that.

It’s easy to denigrate this level of the music scene, a level which exists outside of the industry. But I’d put this above tribute acts. They’re not pretending to be another band or cashing in on another name, and in many respects, this kind of live music is foundational. The first gigs I ever saw, when I was probably thirteen or so, were covers bands playing in pubs in Lincoln.

Ultimately, I have no real point, no angle, beyond this being a slice of life, and that it’s good to hear live music in even the most rural of settings.

Christopher Nosnibor

The March Violets’ career path has followed an unusual trajectory – as is perhaps fitting for a band which always stood apart, even from the scene it helped create. A band who’d disbanded before I even discovered them, they’ve released more new material since their 2007 reunion than in the whole of their initial career. Rosie has survived throat cancer, which stalled post-reunion activity for a while, and co-founder Si Denbigh was forced to depart following a stroke some years ago. But they’re still here, and in their current three-piece iteration, they’re touring as hard now, almost forty-five years since their inception, as ever, and they’re very much an active, still-writing band.

But this current tour is an unashamed nostalgia fest, playing the entirety of their 1984 compilation Natural History, which gathered (most of) their early single releases, and which was given a reissue for Record Store Day this year – hence the ‘(Un)Natural History Tour’ with all of the songs, but not in the same order. Tonight is particularly special, being a homecoming show, and they’ve cued up some hotly-tipped support acts for the occasion.

Up first, Mouth Ulcers – who have been booked to support none other than The Mission for one of their four nights at The O2 Forum in Kentish Town, London, marking the 40th anniversary of God’s Own Medicine. Wayne Hussey recently described them as ‘definitely the real-deal and a band that are deservedly going places’. It’s hard to argue. The singer, Zak, looks a bit Nick Cave in a rather baggy suit with bootlace tie, and as a band, they cohere as well visually as they do sonically, serving up a set of A1 shoegaze goth. Brittle, atmospheric guitars interweave… and that bass! Bassist Jamie-Lee is static, almost mannequin like, and knocks out the most perfect metronomic groove in the vein of Craig Adams era Sisters with complete nonchalance. Propelled by some supremely crisp drumming, they’re an absolute rush, and a complete revelation.

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Mouth Ulcers

Heathen Apostles make for a mess obvious choice for the bill, but prove to be an inspired one. They described themselves as Western Gothic, or Gothic Western, and play lively and dramatic folk, which is at times dark, with a cracked old double bass with loads of gaffer tape and a fiddler who plays hard, gnashing his teeth when it gets intense. Guitarist Chopper Franklin has steel-toed boots with the metal on the outside, and Mather Louth (vocals / guitar / frame drum. Theirs is quite a long set, but they have hauled themselves all the way from LA, and the fact they’ve toured recently with Fields of the Nephilim speaks not only of their quality, but how they’ve been embraced by the UK goth scene.

“Fuck Donald Trump… We’re not that kind of a roots band,” Louth tells us. It’s a sign of the times that nearly every band over from the US feels the need to make clear that they don’t support the regime of the orange fascist, but it’s always reassuring to hear it.

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Heathen Apostles

Protest song ‘No Peace’, which they say is being censored by online platforms – is a clear standout. ‘Without a Trace’ is introduced as a gothabilly hoedown, and it’s hard to resist the urge to get some air at this point, but I stick around, and ‘The Reckoning’ makes for a rousing finale. They’re not my kind of thing per se, but it’s hard to fault the energy and the showmanship.

The mighty March Violets are straight in with ‘Long Pig’, followed by ‘Religious as Hell’, which has only made the setlist a handful of times since 2007. To say it’s a joy to hear it is an understatement: as the first track off their first EP, it exemplifies The Violets’ most primitive, angular post-punk roots, with its stuttering drum machine and squalling guitar. ‘Hammer the Nail’ is one of only two later songs in the set, meaning we get to revisit a wealth of material which hasn’t been aired live in donkeys. ‘Radiant Boys’ hasn’t made the setlist for a couple of years, and ‘Undertow’ has barely made the cut in the last decade, but tonight, they sound fresh and punchy.

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The March Violets

On stage, they’ve stripped the setup right back, the guitar and bass going straight into the PA via DI, meaning that not only are there no drums, but no amps, and there’s no smoke and the lighting is pretty straightforward, too. This bareness only heightens the sense of proximity, and there are some nice exchanges with the audience. It also means that with none of the usual distractions, I find I watch and listen more closely, and am reminded just how unconventional their song structures are, as well as how unique Tom Ashton’s approach to guitar playing is, not only with the use of harmonics, but also the way he navigates the fretboard. And as on last year’s tour, he looks to be so happy to be up there – and the same is true of the rest of the band, for that matter. Rosie is on top form, super-sprightly and in fine voice, and the sense of occasion – playing these early songs in the very place where it all started – isn’t lost on her.

The set closes with ‘Snake Dance’ – because there it simply has to – and they encore with ‘Walk into the Sun’, the only other post-Natural History song of the set. It’s a solid pop tune (that’s now fully forty years old), and a supremely upbeat way to finish the night. And a great night it was at that.

Christopher Nosnibor

I can still smell the smoke on my clothes and skin. I can still taste the smoke. Not tobacco smoke, as used to be the case way back (although more recently than seems possible), but smoke machine smoke. Back in the 90s – and no doubt prior – gigs would often leave this lingering residue embedded within the senses. But some time, around the turn of the millennium, perhaps, there seemed to be a change in the formula of smoke used at most live events, in favour of something less dense and noxious, and which didn’t make you sweat so much, with most fog formulas now being advertised as being white, without ‘unpleasant odour’ and ‘leaving no oily residue’. Sunn O))) seem to have managed to hijack an entire tanker’s worth of the old vegetable oil-based stuff and pump it out at a rate of gallons per second during the entirely of their set, which, despite featuring (apparently) five tracks, has a colossal duration in the region of an hour and three quarters.

So much of the Sunn O))) experience is steeped in ritual and ceremony. From the hooded robes, the power of incense drifting in amongst the smoke from the machines, the wielding of the guitars as eternal drones ring in sustain from the amplifiers. Those amplifiers, vintage valve amps, stacked almost to the ceiling my towering monoliths, arranged in such a way as to resemble the interior of a prehistoric monument, bathed, before the show begins, in a celestial blue hue, inviting worship simply by their looming presence, even when silent.

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AA

Black Mountain make for an interesting choice of support, and an appropriate contrast. Initially, they present as a quiet acoustic folk duo. There’s some chat at the side towards the toilets and bar, but the swelling audience is largely quiet and respectful in front of the stage. Their second song introduces drum machine and distortion on the guitar, and while the harmonious form doesn’t change, the texture very much does, with squalling desert rock overtones and bluesy strains and a dash of 70s rock filtering their way into the songs throughout the set, which is pleasant – not in the vague, not much of anything sense, but mellow and melodic and low-key. It’s a most enjoyable half hour which contrasts nicely with the earth-shattering experience which follows.

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Black Mountain

By way of an intro, they play all of the talk from between the songs from an entire live set by Venom, the progenitors of black metal (something Melvins did with their ‘Cowboy’ single, which was equally frustrating). It made for a long and twitchy eight minutes of suspense that felt like an eternity. But this is Sunn O))) all over. Their entire ethos seems to be based on the question of ‘how far can we actually push this?’ – and when they find what must surely be the absolute limit, they nudge it a bit further, and then further still. And as it played on, and on, the stage began to flood with smoke… and more, and more smoke, until it became completely impenetrable. Vertical LED beams along the front of the stage illuminate the smoke in such a way as to create a curtain which renders the stage itself invisible when viewed from the other side.

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Sunn O)))

Anderson and O’Malley are guided onstage with torches, and moments later the first chord strikes. Immediately, everything shudders. The very air quakes as I feel my flesh quiver and my ribs, my lungs tremble. Time immediately stalls. And something strange happens. Perhaps I enter something approximating a trance-like state. Whatever it is, I find myself utterly spellbound, and borderline hypnotised by the combination of the spectacle and the sound. It’s not zoning out, but zoning in, fixated on the tones and textures, and the way the two interact and interweave, catching glimpses of the band in the brief moments when the smog thins.

Stripped down to a two-piece, the volume is typically obliterative, but it’s clear they’re fully immersed in exploring the spaces between the notes, more subtle dynamics of the way certain frequencies resonate. The sound is remarkably clear, and while there are howling walls of feedback, the sonic spectrum is predominantly low-end, meaning that there’s no tinnitus-inducing harsh treble (at least not with earplugs, and everyone I see is suitably equipped), and as a consequence, it’s easier to simply bask in the huge throb which envelops every inch of your being. The first two tracks are run together as one continuous piece, a full hour in duration, and at this point, the smoke reaches a new peak of density. It’s beyond suffocating, you can’t see your own hand let alone the stage, from which emanates the most brutal howl of feedback yet. But there’s no checking your watch to puff that only twenty minutes have elapsed, and they’ve barely played three notes. Some people move further back to escape the full force of the backline, but the majority simply stand, transfixed. This is peak Sunn O))). As much as there’s a sense that they’re testing us, they’re also testing themselves, and revelling in the theatre of it all. It’s high art.

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More smoke blasts across the stage like a tidal wave. Everything is vibrating, from my nostrils to my buttocks. I’m amused to see people nearby attempting to film clips of the show, only for their phones to be completely submerged in billows of smoke – which are an analogue of the billowing rumble radiating from the stacks of speakers, and with the backline alone capable of filling the 1,000 capacity with that organ-bothering low-frequency drone, the fact they’re all in turn mic’d up only adds layers to this oceanic swell of sound. Anderson and O’Malley don’t so much strike chords as mildly stroke a string to set off another devastating avalanche of sound.

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Towards the end of the set, O’Malley lodges his guitar on top of a stack, wedged against the ceiling, before subsequently hanging it by the neck from a power cable above, and letting it swing from the rafters.

And just like that, it stops. The smoke clears, and the two men step forward and receive – humbly, and with gratitude – the most rapturous applause. Because for all of the theatre involved in creating the separation between band and audience, the obstinate absence of engagement, for the pain-threshold volume, the appreciation flows both ways. It’s a joyously respectful experience: no chat (as if!), no heckling, but a symbiotic exchange based on pure immersion in pure art. And tonight, we’ve witnessed an ascendency to a new pinnacle. Pure transcendence.

Christopher Nosnibor

Stephen Kennedy has an outstanding sense of occasion. Having put on grand candlelight shows under the Gothic Moth banner in the Cemetery Chapel in York, there was no way the album launch for his latest project, Papillon De Nuit, was going to be some pub gig with a couple of local rock bands supporting. And so here we are in The National Centre for Early Music, a converted church with a high, twin-vaulted ceiling. It’s an appropriate setting in which to mark the release of Musetta, an ambitious album a year in the making involving a considerable number of collaborators. This also marks their first live performance, and features a necessarily expansive lineup, featuring ‘cello, piano, guitars, drums and percussion, soprano, orators and vocalist’.

It also happens to coincide with the hottest June day in history – the third consecutive record-breaker, no less, so it’s a relief to be seated and in an old church rather than standing in a sweaty bar – much as I love sweaty bars, the humidity of later has been such that we’d have had people passing out left, right, and centre in such a setting. It’s still plenty warm enough, thank you.

The doors open later than advertised, and seeing the amount of gear on stage – and the sheer size of those drums – it’s hardly surprising. Most bands travel by transit van, or even car. The Tengu Taiko Drummers have a removal van parked outside. Once we’re all in, the lights go down, and there is a hush of expectation. And we wait. It’s a good three suspenseful minutes before the ominous drone and trilling pipes begin to creep from the PA and finally, the drummers begin to appear. No wonder they’re starting behind time: the setup for The Tengu Taiko Drummers is mind-blowing. They filter onto the stage in masks and present a piece which offers a narrative alongside the striking visuals and the sonic impact of the barrage of percussion. The logistics of some eight musicians packed onto the stage, bounding and leaping and switching positions, plus changing the configuration of the numerous and large drums between pieces would be challenging any night, but with the heat and humidity it’s little short of an heroic feat. It’s an extremely physical performance, and the players aren’t so much glowing as aflame only halfway through. It’s clearly a battle for breath, but they power through to deliver a spectacular show.

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The Tengu Taiko Drummers

Thank dog there’s a bar with some refrigerated beers: the interval affords a vital opportunity to replenish some fluids before Papillon Du Nuit make their highly anticipated stage debut. And they don’t disappoint. The plan, on paper, is simple: to play the album. But to bring a studio-based project to a live setting is a huge leap, and often, what works on tape doesn’t work so well live. But here, it all works spectacularly, and they sound as if they’ve been rehearsing for months – although the fact of the matter is quite different. Indeed, the fact is they’ve only rehearsed a couple of times, so it’s testament to the musical intuition and the high level of skill of the players that they come together so well. The sound, too, is fantastic. Clearly, the venue is set up for musical performances, but the sound engineer achieves magnificent clarity and separation between the instruments.

They open the set as the album begins, with the brooding ‘Jude’, Kennedy whispering ‘Is it dark or am I blind?’ ‘The Pilgrim’s Arc’ sees the drums leading the mix for the first time, paired chunky five-string bass break from Dominique, and showcasing them at their most expansive and ambitious, with its dual vocals, whereby Karen Amanda O’Brien’s voice provides a counterpoint to Shephen’s on this this sweeping epic of a song.

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Pappilon du Nuit

Images of tombstones and lyrical themes of mortality and loss abound, and these are songs rich in poeticism and steeped in the most beautiful melancholy. ‘I’m in your head / so I’m not dead,’ Kennedy sings on ‘Sister, dear’, and it’s as if he’s speaking from the other side in the future tense. The effect is intensely moving, balancing the darkness of the inevitable with a rare positivity, without ever being cliché. In contrast with the reflective atmosphere, Kennedy is sporting – in addition to his trademark hat – some pretty bold trews, the black and white striped spandex giving more glam metal vibes than soul-bearing introspective gothic drama.

‘Amber’ is sparse and atmospheric, and with its marching boots introduction, its dark, gothy bass and snaking guitar, ‘Frozen Charlotte’ is a real highlight of the set, as it is on the album. It’s sweeping, majestic, grand, the sound crisp and clear and nailed tightly to some tense, metronomic drumming. Mika Rudawska’s brooding cello stands out in shaping its haunting atmosphere.

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Bringing the The Tengu Taiko Drummers back for a collaborative rendition of ‘Ariadne’ makes for an incredible finale: Kennedy vacates the stage to stand in front as soprano vocalist Megan Richardson takes centre position, and he enthusiastically conducts this monumental performance.

Combining an album launch with a debut live outing was an ambitious project, to say the least – but it befits such an ambitious musical project – and not only did it not disappoint, but exceeded even the highest expectations. Nothing short of stunning.