Posts Tagged ‘math rock’

Christopher Nosnibor

Since Fork, who had originally been advertised as the main support act, have disappeared from the bill, Fat Spatula are the sole utensil-themed band playing here tonight. Being the night before Halloween, they’ve gone for fancy dress, but without any obvious theme, meaning they look even more disparate than usual. Drummer Jamie presents as a ghoulish Rasputin figure in a monk’s cowl and corpse paint. Bassist Andy Precious, lurching and twirling centre stage, is sporting a boiler suit and steam punk goggles which soon depart his face, and I’ve no idea what singer / guitarist Nick Wolterman has come as. It transpires that the special guest they’ve been touting is Bull’s Tom Beer on rhythm guitar. He’s really giving it some, and plays most of the set without a top E. As always, there’s something mildly chaotic about their performance, but with their brand of slacker alt-rock, it actually works as a style of presentation. The set is built around their 2022 album, Microwave Minutes, with short, snappy tunes across a range of styles: ‘Chicka Chicka’ is a bit funky, ‘Skulls’ is a bit country, and the verses of ‘Love Happens Naturally’ call to mind REM’s ‘It’s the End of the World As We Know It’. As always, they’re good fun.

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Fat Spatula

Damage Control are quite the contrast, with a heads-down blast of straight-up unreconstituted thrashpunkmetal. Some bands wear their influences on their sleeves: these guys wear them simply on their T-shirts. Sgt Steel (bass / vocals) is wearing a Mötörhead shirt, and judging by his playing style and posture, he’s been possessed by the spirit of Lemmy. Capn’ Fent (drums, vocals) is sporting a mclusky T, while I can’t quite make out guitarist The Wizard’s logo, because it’s largely obscured by a flailing flurry of hair being shaken all over as he blasts out chords on his Flying V at a blurring pace. They stick closely to the punk-edged speed metal template of Mötörhead for the duration of their set, playing every song loud, hard, and fast. They’re seriously tight and their sound is powerful, and meaty.

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Damage Control

ATKRTV are one of a recent crop of bands founded in York who have gone on to relocate in order to make a go of it, and like Bitchcraft (who have also moved to London) and Teleost (now based in Glasgow), a return to their roots after only a short time evidences a huge developmental leap. Less than a year ago, they were the opening band on a lineup in this very same venue, and while showing clear promise, were a bit rough around the edges, and their grunge / noise-rock / math / jazz hybrid was still in a state of evolution. Ideally, evolution is a continual process, rather than something which takes place prior to reaching a specific end point, and that’s precisely what their debut EP, Pilot, released in September is. As they put it, ‘Like a pilot episode, this EP worked as a testing ground for different musical directions, a snapshot of what we’ve enjoyed playing over the last three years’. They also describe themselves as ‘a post-hardcore band writing frenetic songs born from technological angst’. The first four songs land back-to-back, short and pacey, the fusion of math, jazz, and hardcore landing in a space that’s not a million miles away from Fugazi at times.

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ATKRTV

These EP songs are longer and more complex, with movements and segments and tempo changes. The third of the EP’s tracks, ‘Attacker TV’ is noticeably slower, heavier, and more atmospheric, while the EP’s driving, high-octane last track, ‘Dial a Vow’ hits hard with its choppy chords and strains of feedback. And then they’re diving headlong into the fast and furious attacking numbers again, and I’m often reminded of …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead. Calls for an encore are met with heavy grinder ‘Garage Flower’, as yet unreleased – which is in fact true of most of their material. It showcases yet another facet of their sound, and it’s one which suits them.

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ATKRTV

During the set, Max (guitar / vocals) makes several forays into the audience, on one occasion winding up thrashing away on his back. They still have every ounce of the energy they had previously, but they’ve learned how to harness it, to channel it into more precise playing, and they’ve grown in confidence, too. Put simply, they’ve come a long way in a short time.

27th October 2027

Christopher Nosnibor

The name Little Window conveys almost childlike, playschool connotation. Or, certainly something vaguely idyllic, a sense of the safe, the cozy. Meanwhile the band describe their debut album as ‘a cure for societal heartburn’. Who hasn’t been suffering from that of late? It’s been absolutely relentless for six years now. It seems as if the world was biding its time during lockdown – which was nuts – to go full-blown crazy, and none of it has been pleasant.

And, indeed, it so happens that Red Ant emerged from some pretty dark places, as the band’s bio outlines: ‘Written through cycles of insomnia, grief and self-destruction, Red Ant embraces the horror and chaos of death and transmutation. “Explorations of the fracture and intensity of death’s confrontation had given way to a sort of expansiveness”, explains Eli. “I had not had that kind of levity in a long time, and it triggered a childhood memory of climbing up a steep rock face with my siblings barefoot. We climbed to the highest ledge, feigning the courage to jump into the lake below from the extreme height. Crowded on the small ledge together, we all looked down with sudden shock. Dozens of red ants were stinging our bare feet, having disturbed their nest under the moss. Our eyes locked for a millisecond in midair. A euphoric moment of synchronized recklessness, all having made the same ridiculous decision to immediately jump.’

It’s a common scenario. Traumatic and challenging experiences inspire the best art. For some, creativity is the best therapy – or perhaps, for some, the only way of dealing with such things. On a personal level, it’s relatable, too. I only specifically recall wearing shorts other than for PE on three occasions. On one of them, in school, I received a major telling off because the teacher didn’t like the way I had completed a design project. On another, my legs got so badly sunburned, the skin peeled for weeks. And on the other, I stood on a manhole cover by the front lawn. I’d have been about four. And suddenly, red ants were crawling all up my legs, like a scene in a horror movie.

Working through trauma by focusing and interrogating it by means of creative processes can be immensely beneficial. And Red Ant deals with those real-life experiences head-on, in that Little Window make some crunchy, riff-driven noise. And make no mistake, while some of the titles may on the surface seem twee, there’s nothing twee about anything on this album.

The album’s first track, ‘Dirty Bookshelf’ starts low and grungy with a dash of wonky math-rock and a vaguely jazz slant. It’s largely innocuous in real terms, but then Eli Howey’s tremulous vocals arrive, and suddenly, he’s an undeniable force of nature everything changes, and the result is something like a heavy psychedelic Melvins-inspired outtake from Bleach. This is very much the angle that pervades the album as a whole – raw, urgent, and driving, and with production to match the low-budget values of the early days of grunge before it got co-opted by major labels.

It’s by far the album’s longest song, meaning that following the slow-burn, the floodgates open for a succession of sub-three-minute riff-heavy cuts. But that isn’t to say they’re lacking in emotional depth or any sense of softer feelings: moreover, Red Ant is an exploration of contrasts and juxtapositions: the breakdown moments in ‘Weeks’ are poignant and emotionally resonant, Howey confiding ‘I can’t go to sleep / ‘cause sleep makes me weak / I can’t go to bed / ‘cause bed makes me sad’. And instead of the throaty roar which is commonplace in this kind of context, he swoops and soars. But nor it his style really emo, although it is disarming in its unpolished immediacy, its quavering tones almost folky in places – something perhaps most apparent on the haunted-sounding ‘Get You Good’, a tense, acoustic-led sliver of a song.

‘Goldenrod’ is a decorative yellow plant, and the title again connotes something delicate and wistful, contrasting significantly with the sonic manifestation of this full-throttle guitar blast. It’s all leading toward the bass-booming, blown-out fuzzfest of the title track, which rips through like a forest fire in under two and a half minutes, crashing straight into the wild and desperate ‘So Many Times’.

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I suspect that for some, Howey’s voice may be an obstacle for some, simply because it’s not the conventional style for this kind of big guitar noise. But then I remember as a teen struggling with Dinosaur Jr at first, because J. Mascis’ voice seemed so weak and reedy against the backdrop of so much loud guitar. It was only when I tuned into the way this almost piteous whine, coupled with such expressive solos, carried so much more emotional weight than the more overtly masculine rage of other guitar bands that it all made sense. And while Little Window sound nothing like Dinosaur Jr, it’s this rare quality, the emotional openness and fragility, which gives Red Ant its unique impact.

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Pic: Starlyn Lu

Two decades have passed in the land of Gnod, yet the psychic travelogue only becomes more enthralling as it goes on. The page is turned, a new chapter begins…

Whilst this band has flourished via dauntless conviction, hive-mind magic and a fierce and uncompromising spirit, one ingredient has served as a crucial fuel for the fire – the monolithic singularity of the riff.

This second chapter of Gnod’s sort-of-anniversary trilogy also originates in the same six day sessions as the first, at Hellfire Studios near Dublin with producer Spud Murphy (Lankum, Black Midi etc). Yet the focus this time is on the transcendental heaviness and repetition that the band have often used as a primary fulcrum of their approach. This volume captures the sound of strings flayed, throats shredded, skins punished by the organic chemistry of this formidably powerful band in a room.

Chronicles of Gnowt (Vol. 2) will arrive via Rocket Recordings on 9th October and is preceded by the track and video for ‘The Witness’. Watch it here:

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Operating as ever stubbornly adrift of all or any genre restrictions, the coruscating workouts chronicled here evolved on the road in the last two years before being honed and perfected in the studio setup by Murphy. “Spud was masterful –recording live, pushing us to do more takes and then when the right take was done, by the time we got to the desk from the live room he already had it sounding great for playback” relates the band’s Paddy Shine.

The results are amongst the most fearsome and kinetic material that Gnod have summoned to date. The opening ‘The Witness’ takes a The Ex-ish groove and sets it in motion before driving a wall of incandescent guitar scree through it. ‘Ice Man’ redlines an animalistic Melvins-style framework into the realms of dystopian burnout. ‘Old Gold’ meanwhile centres on three-guitar interplay snaking around a muscular, taut groove, with Paddy’s feverish declamations acting as master of ceremonies.

As has often been the case for a band heavily driven by serendipity and intuition, the best plan is no plan at all. “We find quite regularly that spontaneity and the no thought approach works better than over analysis and detailed planning,” clarifies Chris Haslam, “Paddy’s stream of consciousness lyrical approach is another example of how when we remove our own will from the process, something purer, more real & more connected fills the void.”

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Christopher Nosnibor

One measure of how much I’ve enjoyed a night is by volume the notes I’ve made. It’s not a hard and fast rule, but fewer notes tend to indicate that I’ve been too immersed in the performances – and likely being social in between – to write much. And so it is that I returned home tonight with a bunch of blurry photos and the grand total of fifty-four words.

Yes, for their one-year anniversary gig, Utterly Fuzzled have laid on a truly top-class lineup – and it’s drawn a deservedly significant crowd. And the gong is back! A feature of the early events, it’s a welcome return for this signature piece of instrumentation, which variously heralds the opening of a set, or otherwise

Sheffield’s Duck are making their Fuzzled debut, and showcase a northern post-punk style that emanates authenticity, due in no small part to their vintage drum machine and synths which define the sound. They had issues with their levels throughout the set, taking a song or two before the drum machine cut through some particularly murky, bassy guitar and the dominant synths, only to sink back beneath the waves two-thirds of the way through. But then the tide was in their favour, they were ace, with a crisp pop edge and some nice harmonies. In places, they reminded me of short-lived and criminally underrated goth-pop act Sunshot (whose guitarist, Toby Bricheno, is the brother of Tim Bricheno, formerly of All About Eve and The Sisters of Mercy).

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Duck

It wouldn’t be an Utterly Fuzzled event without one of the various projects of the organisers on the bill, and tonight we get a – comparatively rare – outing from Chaffinch, which in terms of lineup is essentially Knitting Circle plus an additional guitarist. Sonically, they are somewhat different. Precisely what they sound like seems to be a topic for debate, with different people hearing different things, and with no recordings, it’s impossible to verify. To my ear, it’s a cocktail of mathy post-punk with some c.86 indie jangle and a dash of shoegaze, which is perhaps best summarised as ‘chaffinchous’ (there you go, Jamie, the royalties from the coinage are in the post).

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Chaffinch

The aforementioned additional guitarist is a towering presence – both physically and sonically, and requires a lot of space for his expressive playing, playing in front of the stage, trading angular chords with Pete Dale, while Jo knocks out chunky, solid basslines by way of balance. Considering they’re debuting some new and recently revised material, they manage to keep it tight, and by the end of the set, all bar drummer Marc are in front of the stage.

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Chaffinch

Riff behemoths JUKU never disappoint, and tonight they’re fully pumped-up and giving 110%. They bring maximum riffs, and maximum rock ‘n’ roll, at maximum volume. On paper, comparatively primitive song structures, based around, repetitive chords hammered out hard is cool and all, but hardly a revelation. It’s not so much what they do, then, but how they do it: propelled by powerhouse percussion and blasting bass, the twin guitar assault forges a ferocious wall of sound. It’s not volume simply for its own sake, but with the function of rendering a visceral physicality to their performances. And they all play as if their instruments are plugged directly into the mains, with an electric, kinetic energy that positively crackles. Practically all of my photos of Dan Gott are unusable, his features blurred like a Francis Bacon portrait, and looking on, I feel as if my own face is melting in the face of the sheer sonic force tearing forth.

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JUKU

Any references likening the experience to being hit by a freight train, or a freewheeling juggernaut with failed brakes hitting terminal velocity as it screams downhill are entirely appropriate. But for all the noise, the three-way vocals and some deft detail within the guitar work demonstrates an attention to melody and nuance: they very much do have songs. ‘Out of Control’ is a straight-up grunger in the vein of Hole.

Irked were second from top of the bill at the first Utterly Fuzzled on 10th May last year (and with Crumbs and Slime City also featured, it’s possible to now look back and see just what a statement of intent this was). They’ve come quite some way in that time, having released their debut album, The Grievance at the start of the month, and won a high-profile fan in the form of none other than Simon le Bon. If they were phenomenal a year ago, they’re even better now. The formula is classic, vintage punk, with short, sharp songs focused on three-chord riffs played hard and very, very fast, with the lyrics hollered just and hard and just as fast. Irked do pissed off and angry, but they also do fun. Not only are they incredibly entertaining, but it’s clear they’re enjoying themselves, too: Helen may be endlessly pacing, lunging, clambering, in the crowd and in your face, but she’s equally prone to fits of giggles.

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Irked

It’s guitarist Simon who delivers the chat and banter, griefing his bandmates in a good-natured way, and oftentimes absolutely hilarious, although ahead of the last couple of songs, he does pause to reflect on the state of the nation and the dire prospects we face in the wake of last week’s council elections, but taking the opportunity to praise the community spirit of nights like this. He’s absolutely right: what Utterly Fuzzled give us is more than great bands. There’s a warmth in the room (and not just because it’s packed and there’s no aircon): people come here and feel able to leave the bad shit at the door and see first-hand that there is good in the world. We need to not lose sight of this.

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Irked

They close their blistering set with a quick one-two of ‘The Hardest Man in Billingham’ and debut single ‘Backstreets’, making for a ferocious finale to a fantastic night.

The buzz in the room as people draw breath and process what they’ve just witnessed is unmistakeable. Here’s looking to another year of Fuzzled brilliance.

Romac Puncture Repairs – 17th March 2026

Christopher Nosnibor

While Rad Berms is Abigail Snail’s debut release, the musicians behind the name have a notable pedigree, and between them, drummer Will Glaser and guitarist Stef Kett (aka Stef Ketteringham) have numerous credits on record – and for Rad Berms, they’ve joined by ‘master reed player’ James Allsopp, who gets pretty much everywhere. And for this debut release, Abigail Snail’s promise ‘avant-rock, improv, and experimental soul groove into an adventurous collection of tender, boundary-pushing songs’.

After the gentlest of intros, the first track, ‘Show Breaking to Waves’ slowly derails before the arrival of the vocals. The vibe is rather Crooked Rain Crooked Rain era Pavement, only wonkier and significantly jazzier, particularly in the percussion. The instrumentation is sparse, the feel a shade folky… then ‘Soul Berm’, the first of the ‘Berms’ crashes in, wonky, scratchy, discordant. Counterpart ‘Space Berm’ sounds like a noisy tuning up / tuning down outtake, a chaotic interlude of jarring noise rock propelled by a jazz percussion break.

I remember reading a review of Trumans Water in the early 90s describing them as ‘the real Pavement’. Well, I think it was Trumans Water and not Archers of Loaf. AoL were kinda tame indie: Trumans Water were demented and truly off-kilter, taking the lo-fi slacker thing to a level that incorporated the weirdness of Captain Beefheart, down to the sounding like they were playing different songs in different keys and tempos, but all at the same time. This is a circuitous detour to arrive at the conclusion that Abigail Snail call to mind – well, my kind, which is a vault of disorganised musical files and recollections – Trumans Water, only even further out and significantly jazzier.

I appreciate that with every sentence, I’m probably alienating another ten per cent of potential listeners here. It’s probably for the best. Rad Berms is as niche as it is crazy, and it’s better to shed the ones who won’t dig it early on and save everyone the hassle of rubbing the wrong way.

A deranged howl of ‘Goooooood grief / That’s one batshit brief / Good Lord / How much shit can one chick hoard?’ delivered atop clanging, angular guitar that’s pure Shellac announces the arrival of single cut ‘Good Grief’, a raw, riotous blast of jazz and math-rock melded together. They explore a host of genre forms across Rad Berms, but manage to incorporate some jazziness into most of them.

‘Attach Bayonets’ lands in the middle of the album and brings with it a mellow psychedelic / desert rock feel, like a slacker retake of America’s ‘Horse with No Name’, only with bongos and woodwind – and no obvious hook. But you get the idea. Hopefully. It’s kinda trippy, primarily acoustic, and at times quite discordant. Laden with melody and harmonies, ‘Stay Rad’ is mellow, too, a quintessential slice of slacker indie with a dash of 60s psychedelia. There’s daftness in abundance here, and at times it does seem as if they’re just testing us as listeners while they dick about showing off their technical prowess and simply demonstrating their capacity to make music that doesn’t conform to any convention, and the fact they’re too cool for choruses, or even structure anyone can follow. ‘Yikes Bikes’ and ‘Bitchin’ Chords’ in particular feel indulgent, albeit in quite different ways. But why not? There was a time when bands would say in interviews that they made music for themselves, and it was a bonus if anyone else liked it. It became a cliché, and of course most of them were lying. But now? Who makes music to get rich and famous? Some, for sure, but the majority appreciate now that it’s not going to happen, so they may as well make music to please themselves – which is precisely what Abigail Snail are doing here. There’s no way you could accuse these guys of being predictable or lacking range.

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Christopher Nosnibor

People are unpredictable. The world is unpredictable. And just when we think we’ve seen it all, a couple of days ago, US Attorney General Pam Bondi testified before the House Judiciary committee, making for TV the likes of which few of us have ever witnessed. We’ll return to this in due course, as it’s relevant beyond the fact that gig-going tends to provide respite and time out from all the madness.

And so it is that it’s hard to predict gig attendance, particularly when ticket availability is being touted to the thirteenth hour. But with a last-minute surge in attendance – seemingly because Flat Light (is that a pun?), playing their debut show, had managed to coax everyone they’d ever met out to see them – the place was packed early doors, which was unexpected for a cold dark night on Valentine’s weekend during the wettest and most depressing February in history.

Flat Light are up first. They’re five white office-type guys playing pedestrian indie. They were together enough, went down well, but apart from the last song – where they upped the tempo and came to life a bit, and in fairness, sounded really good – it was a pretty tepid, inauspicious start.

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Flat Light

Suffering from the lack of a soundcheck, Knitting Circle spend the first couple of songs working on their levels, and even then, the sound is a bit muffled – specifically the vocals and guitar. But given that guitarist Pete is also the sound engineer, the fact that they pull it together is beyond admirable, and closer to heroic. Since whittling down to a three-piece, they’ve really focussed their sound, and following a spell of pretty intense gigging, they’re well-honed, and as always, an absolute joy to watch. As is often the case when Knitting Circle play a hometown show, there’s a new song: this time, it’s ‘Witch Folk’ which speaks of the thousands of women persecuted for witchcraft, forgotten by history. It boasts a particularly angular guitar jangle. They close with a quickfire ‘Losing My Eggs’, and while fluffing the false ending / intersection, recover with grace and good humour. Mistakes happen: it’s how an act deals them which counts, and Knitting Circle very much rose above and came out on top of all of the challenges presented to them tonight, proving that DIY is not a synonym for amateur.

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Knitting Circle

The Unit Ama clearly spent some time on their soundcheck: they sound absolutely fantastic from the first note. On their last visit to York in the summer of 2024, they played a short set around the middle of a bill which also featured The Bricks and Teleost, as well as Objections and Cowtown (I clock a couple of Objections T-shirts tonight). Here, with room for a more expansive set, they seem simultaneously relaxed and energised. Their set is tight, but in disguise as something loose, improvised. It’s apparent, thought, that as much as there’s a keen intuition between the three of them, they’ve put some rehearsal time in.

Jason Etherington’s basslines are hypnotically cyclical, and paired with Christian Alderson busy jazz drumming, played with frayed drumsticks (and, at one point, a bow applied to cymbals), when they break out of the stuttery meandering segments to hit a groove, it’s blissful.

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The Unit Ama

They’re by no means a band who do chat or bantz, instead conjuring epic expanses of quiet improv while tuning up and reconfiguring – in such a way that the actual songs seemingly emerge from nowhere, rising out of swampy expanses of discord and drift, of clattering cymbals and a general sense of slow-swirling chaos. But before playing the penultimate song of the set, a new one called ‘In Your Shoes’ being aired for the first time, Steve Malley pauses things to rant about the insanity of Bondi’s testimony: he was visibly shaken by what he’d witnessed, and I felt it in my chest. He blurted rage about Bondi’s ‘blatant fucking cunting lies’, before apologising for his choice of language, amending it to ‘blatant fucking cunting mistruths’. He’s absolutely spot on, and this leads the charge into a full-throttle blast that’s punk rock – Unit Ama style (perhaps with a heavy hint of Shellac by way of a touchstone – and very much a departure. It’s ace, too.

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They’d planned to leave it there, but the audience convince them to give us an encore, which topped things off nicely. It seems that one thing you can predict is that a Fuzzled event at the Fulfordgate is guaranteed to be a good night.

Christopher Nosnibor

The third Utterly Fuzzled event boasts another strong lineup, with a mix of out of town talent, the cream of the crop from York, plus new and emerging acts. It seems wholly fitting that they’ve found Fulfordgate WMC as a home for these events. One might describe it as quaint, but it has everything you’d want for a DIY musical microscene – stage, PA, cheap beer, a little way off the beaten track but still accessible from the city centre – and some things which are harder to define. A sense of community, and quintessentially northern, unpretentious.

I recently finished reading Sleevenotes by Joe Thompson of Hey Colossus and Henry Blacker – which is, hands-down, the best book about being in a DIY / small band, and I cannot recommend it enough. So many of the observations on the DIY scene resonated with me as an attendee – and occasional performer – at venues which are rehearsal rooms, rooms upstairs or at the back of pubs, gigs where there are fifteen people in attendance, and eleven of those are the other bands. He writes of playing these spaces, some with capacities of fifty, and being grateful that anyone turns up at all, about how they all have day jobs and make music because… because, and not with any hope of making money – covering costs to pay for the petrol back is winning.

On my way out, JUKU’s Dan Gott asked if I would be doing a review, and expressed disappointment when I said I would be. He said he wanted me to just enjoy a gig. But just as for makers of music, making music is a compulsion, so is writing for me. As much as I assess and analyse, this project, or whatever it is, is ultimately a document – an ever-evolving document, a diary of sorts. Just as Hey Colossus have been ploughing their furrow for an eternity – or since 2003 – so I’ve been a heavy gig-goer for many years. I can’t remember everything. But I can document it.

Dragged Up are one of those acts who clearly aren’t in it for the money. I’ve covered a few of their releases, and on seeing that they were making the trip from Glasgow to play this humble venue was immediately buzzed. I suppose something about straddling being press and a music fan, and having a Facebook network largely made up of people in the same circles, it’s not always easy to maintain perspective when it comes to a band’s status. There’s an element of ‘wow, are they really playing this little place?’ – and then you’re faced with the fact that any band that’s big in your world isn’t necessarily big in the wider world. It goes both ways, of course: there are bands I’ve never heard of selling out O2 venues and bigger.

The first act on the bill is so new and emerging that they didn’t even have a name until about a week before the event, and so suffice to say that Chaffinch were an entirely unknown quantity. It transpires that they’re a new permutation of Knitting Circle, a band centred around Jo and Pete Dale, who also happen to be the movers behind Utterly Fuzzled events. Tjeir set is clearly a work in progress – Jo confessed that the lyrics to one of the songs, on a sheet of paper in front of her, had only been completed that morning. But they show great potential. As my cursory notes attest, there’s ‘jangle, post-punk, angular, Band of Susans riffiness, elsewhere more 80s indie, a bit Wedding Present. Mathy dynamics. Interesting and a very promising first outing.’ It’s a fair summary that requires little expansion.

Pea Sea is a singer/songwriter whose set is a mixed bag of rearranged traditional folk songs, and quirky narrative led indie tunes, even incorporating bossa nova rhythms, and some quite nice blues, too. It’s kinda ramshackle, and inherently Scottish, and it’s entertaining enough, although I’m not sure if it’s because of or in spite of the bad puns and awkward chat and spaces between songs.

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Pea Sea

I was already down for this the second I saw Dragged Up were coming to York, but the addition of JUKU to the bill absolutely made it. I’ve been banging on about them since their debut gig. And still, some of my mates who’d come down tonight seemed perplexed as to why they hadn’t seen them, as their brand of punk rock played hard and fast and at blistering volume absolutely blew them away. My mates should pay more attention to my reviews, I say. Suffice it to say, JUKU were fucking blistering. Naomi is kinda nonchalant but also goes hard, and there’s the constant worry as to whether the mic stand will fall over or her glasses will slip off her face (in the end, by some miracle, neither) and Dan wrings noise from his guitar with clenched tattooed fists, hunched over so low his forehead is practically scraping his strings. It’s primitive, four-chord punk cranked up to eleven, and they play so, so hard. This is a band that destroys every stage it sets foot on. They need to be on a label. They need to go national, international. Live acts don’t come better than this.

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Consequently, Dragged Up perhaps suffer from having to follow JUKU. They’re decent, though, and no mistake. But venturing out with their new bassist, things feel a bit tentative at times I’m too into the set to make many notes. I’ve hashed together some observations on how they’re masters of post-Fall post-Pavement ramshackle indie, and how their songs chime and crash with strolling bass and shuffling drums.

New single ‘Clachan Dubh’ lands around mid-set with its chunky, chuggy driving groove driven by thick bass and energetic drums, and they swing between succinct killer blasts and sprawling beasts led by thumping grooved and manifold swerves and detours.

It’s hard to tell if they’re not quite firing on all cylinders or if this is simply the way pf Dragged Up, and it’s likely a bit of both. But there’s no question that they simply do their thing and don’t really give a crap, and the attitude is worth all the applause and plaudits alone.

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Dragged Up are one of those bands who don’t even have a game to raise most of the time. They play their songs. They have some good songs, and people take notice.

It’s a tidy/messy end to a night of solid quality.

Human Worth – 6th June 2025

Christopher Nosnibor

Where does the time go? No, really? I’m not just stunned by the fact we’re a week into June already, but the fact that it’s been six years since the last Lower Slaughter album, and nine years since I missed their show in Leeds with Working Man Noise Unit supporting because I was watching Man of Moon play to a nearly empty room across town instead. That’s almost a decade I’ve spent being frustrated by my inability to clone myself, and I find it hard to let these things go.

They’ve undergone some changes since their last outing – changes of the nature which would have terminated, many a band. Their bio traces a raid succession of personnel switches:

Following the departure of long-time vocalist Sinead Young, their surprise return in 2024 saw the remaining former members unveil a new line-up, welcoming James Gardiner to the fold on bass, and with previous bass player Barney Wakefield switching over to vocal duties. Upon Gardiner’s addition, a considerably more expansive sound has emerged, bringing the band’s now recognised output of what the Quietus once referred to as ‘lurching noise-rock’ to new exciting heights, all the while set against an equally more confident and expansive dynamic, reinforced by the chemistry of Graham Hebson and Jon Wood, who remain tighter than ever on drums and guitar respectively.

And so seemingly miraculously, they’re still here. Thus, we arrive at Deep Living, a colossal twelve-track document of the new Lower Slaughter, a release of blistering overload dominated by rolling percussion and thick bass. It’s varied, to say the least, and most certainly does not pursue the most obvious or commercial avenues. It was certainly worth the wait, and we’re most grateful that they are still here. And because it’s being released by Human Worth, 10% of all sales proceeds donated to charity The PANDAs Foundation – a trusted support service for families suffering with perinatal mental illness.

After a good couple of minutes of rolling, tom-driven percussion and muted vocals which sit partially submerged beneath a fat, fuzzed out bass ‘Year of the Ox’ suddenly slams the pedals on and erupts and Wakefield roars in anguish, ‘My eyes! My eyes!’. ‘Take a Seat’ is quite different, more overtly mathy, post-punky, and more accessible overall, despite its hell-for-leather pace and wild energy, and there’s a bit on jangle to altogether mellower ‘The Lights Were Not Familiar’ that’s a shade Pavementy – but it’s Pavement as covered by Fugazi. And the guitars sound loud. In fact, everything on Deep Living sounds loud, and what’s more, the recording and mixing work done by Wayne Adams (Petbrick/Big Lad) captures and conveys that it such a way that it feels loud, like you’re in the room with the backline practically in your face. This is nowhere more apparent than on ‘Dear Phantom’, which has something of a Bug-era Dinosaur Jr vibe to it – and the big grungy riff is magnificent. Then halfway through it goes slow, low, and sludgy – and that’s magnificent too.

Balancing melodic hooks and some quite breezy indie / alt-rock with some hefty, heavier and hugely overdriven passages, Deep Living has some range.

The six-and-a-half-minute ‘Memories of the Road’ is a slow-burning epic that builds to a roaring finish, and makes for a standout cut. It’s a trick they repeat on the title track which brings the album to a close.

In between, ‘Hospital Chips’ brings pace and jittery tension via thumping bass and jarring, sinewy guitars, and straight-up punk brawlers ‘The Bridge’ and ‘Motions’. All the range, but it’s the fact there are tunes galore that make Deep Living a cracking album.

AA

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Cruel Nature Records – 30th May 2025

Christopher Nosnibor

First things first: Beige Palace were ace, and their departure has left a gap in the musical world, especially in Leeds. In a comparatively short timespan, the trio produced a respectably body of work, evolving from their minimal lo-fi beginnings to explore musical territories far and wide, and this final release, split with another Leeds act, Lo Elgin, who, in contrast, have released precious little.

The accompanying notes provide valuable context for the final recordings laid down by Beige Palace, recorded at Wharf Chambers, one of Leeds’ finest DIY venues by Freddy Vinehill-Cliffe (guitar/keys/vocals)… and now helming the mighty Thank.

Taking a step back from the discordant post hardcore of ‘Making Sounds For Andy’ and the freewheeling experimentation of ‘Leg’, Beige Palace’s side largely favours the repetition and extreme dynamic shifts found on their 2016 EP ‘Gravel Time’. The production here also returns to the lo-fi, DIY approach from that EP, eschewing the more polished sound of their two full-length albums. Through returning to their roots, Beige Palace manages to drag their sound to new extremes, with these three tracks bringing to mind artists as disparate as US Maple and Sunn O))).

‘Wellness Retreat’ is dense and discordant, low-end synth drone and bass coalescing to a eardrum-quivering thrum over which scratchy guitars and vocals come in from all sides to forge a magnificently disjointed and angular two minutes and twenty seconds. Too chaotic to really be math-rock, it’s a squirming can of worms, a melting pot where Shellac meets Captain Beefhart at a crossroads with Trumans Water. Or something.

Bringing hints of Silver Jews, the lo-fi crawler ‘Good Shit Fizzy Orange’ does math-rock but with an experimental jazz element, the sparse picked guitar and slow-rolling cymbal work juxtaposed with what sounds like the strumming of an egg slicer before sad strings start to weave their way over it all. The lyrics are, frivolous and stupid, and we wouldn’t want things any other way. Because much as one may value well-crafted, poetical lyrics, sometimes dumb, trashy, meaningless words work just fine. Better than fine, even.

There’s a hint of later Earth about the spartan folksiness of ‘Update Hello Blue Bag Black Bag’ – a song which sounds serious but as the title suggests, isn’t quite so much, but around the midpoint, all the pedals are slammed into overdrive and suddenly there’s a tidal wave of distortion, a speaker-busting cascade of heavy doom-laden drone. And as it tapers to fade, while we mourn the departure of a truly great band, we get to rejoice that during the span of their career, Beige Palace did everything. It’s a solid legacy they’re leaving, and one which may well expand in the years to come. There will be people in five, ten, fifteen years asking ‘remember Beige Palace?’, and other people will be replying ‘Yes! I saw them at CHUNK!’. Well, I will be, anyway. And we still have Thank to be thankful for.

The two pieces which represent Lo Elgin’s contribution mark a sharp contrast to those of Beige Palace. The first, the eleven-minute monster that is ‘Beneath the Clock’, is a thunderous blast of doom-laden rage and anguish. The barking, howling vocals are low in the mix of droning, lurching, lumbering noise, through which strings poke and burst, and as the noise sways and sloshes like a boat tossed hither and thither on waves in a storm as it attempts to guide its way through the entrance to the harbour, the listener finds themselves almost seasick with the unpredictable movement. Around seven minutes in, the tempest abates and the piece meanders into altogether mellower territory, where again I’m reminded of Earth circa Angels of Darkness, Demons of Light. And then, right at the end, there’s a massive jazz segment, backed with crushing guitars. I did not see that coming. And then ‘Abomination’ is different again- a gritty, gnarly, gut-spewing blast of noise that is simply too much…. But too much is never enough as we’re led through a racketacious swamp that starts out Motorhead and toboggans down to a crazed morass of manic jazz.

The two very different sides belong to completely different worlds, at least on the surface. But they are both staunchly strange, keenly experimental, and dedicated to inventive noisemaking, and as such, compliment one another well. And this also perfectly encapsulates the essence of the Leeds scene: diverse, noisy, weird, and wonderful.

AA

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Human Worth – 7th March 2025

Christopher Nosnibor

I hate to moan, I really do. No, really. But January has a tendency to be pretty shit, being cold, and dark, and bleak, and twice as long as any other month and having to turn on the lights at midday and crank up the heating and just wanting to hibernate, and the bills keep on coming but payday is still a lifetime away. But this January, January 2025… just fuck January 2025. It felt like the end of the world even before Trump took office, and now, as California burns and the UK is hammered by one of the worst storms on record, the end of the world looks positively appealing.

I’m not one to pray, but if I was, I would be praying for just one sliver of good news – and this would have been the answer to my prayers. Because a new release on Human Worth is always good news.

Things have happened in the Cassels camp sin the three years since their last album, A Gut Feeling:

“Close to burnout from heavy touring, the brothers Beck returned to their Harringay warehouse practice space. Jim, tired of his last record’s overtures at pop culture, got very into Converge. New songs came: heavy, and weird. Gone are the sharp-tongued character sketches, replaced with a heady cocktail of philosophy and body horror. Ditched, too, are the flirtations with mid-aughts indie rock and electro. On Tracked in Mud, we’re treated to something bigger. Wilder. More… elemental. This is a record about humanity’s disconnection from nature, after all.”

You might be forgiven for thinking that the cover art, so similar to that of A Gut Feeling signifies a neat continuation. It does not. While the sharp angularity of their previous works remains present, Tracked In Mud marks a distinct departure, and the newfound weight is immediately apparent on ‘Nine Circles’, which brings the riffs. Not that you’d necessarily describe their previous output as jaunty, but this hits hard, bursting with disaffection and blistering noise and collapsing into a protracted howl of feedback.

‘Here Exits Creator’ crashes in like a cross between Shellac and Daughters (thankfully minus the dubious allegations) – sparse, twitchy, drum-dominated spoken-word math-rock with explosive bursts of noise, before locking into a sturdy motorik groove.

The songs tend to be on the longer side on Tracked In Mud, with the majority extending beyond the six-minute mark. This feels necessary, providing the space in which to explore the wider-stretching perimeters of composition, and to venture out in different directions. Each song is a journey, which twists and turns. Midway through ‘…And Descends’, there’s a momentary pause. ‘Can someone change the channel, please?’ asks Jim, with clear English elocution, which could be straight from a 70s TV drama – and then spurts of trebly guitar burst forth and lead the song in a whole other direction. It lists and lees and veers towards the psychedelic, but then slides hard into a monster sludge riff worthy of Melvins.

‘…And Descends’ spits venom in all directions, and it’s tense as. The headache that’s been nagging at me half the day becomes a full temple-throbber as I try to assimilate everything that’s going on here. I’m not even sure what is going on here, but it’s a lot. ‘Two Dancing Tongues’ is almost jazzy, but also a bit post punk, a bit goth, its abstract lyrics vaguely disturbing in places… and then, from nowhere, it goes megalithic with the sludgy riffery.

Tracked In Mud is by no means a heavy album overall in the scheme of things – it’s as much XTC and Gang of Four as it is anything else, but equally Therse Monsters and early Pulled Apart by Horses – but it is an album that packs some weight at certain points, and explores the full dynamic range. There are moments which are more Pavement than Converge, but it’s the way in which they bring these disparate elements together that really makes this album a standout. The stylistic collision is almost schizophrenic at times, but, to paraphrase the point rendered in the most impenetrable fashion by Deleuze and Guattari in Anti-Oedipus, schizophrenia is the only sane response to an insane world, and this has never felt more true.

Tracked In Mud is crazy, crazed, disjointed, fragmented. It’s not a complete departure from what came before, but it is a massive leap, a gigantic lurch into weightier territory. It’s a monster.

AA

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