Pit pics. 2013's live music in pics.

So, it's almost the end of what's been a stunning year for live and (mostly) loud music. 

Here's a book-type thing I've scrambled together of some of my favourite pissed iPhone shots from just some of the shows I've been lucky enough to have been at.

They're shaky, sketchy and shambolic but from the hip and the heart. Have a look through and you may even regurgitate the taste of Jager, Sailor Jerry's or cider from a plastic glass.

Big love to all the bands. The pics are all free to steal, share make into chest piece tats or put on commemorative mugs.

2013 - the yummy bits. The best albums and EPs of the year

The very best and truly most edifyingly scrumptious bits of 2013.

Top 10 Albums
So, it seems it's de rigeur for the world, his wife, significant other, lodger and gimp under the floorboards to thumb through the hamper of mouthwatering musical morsels and give everyone their opinion on what constitutes the very best. Not that anyone really gives a flying coffee bean-laden civet shit about what anyone really thinks. But here goes.

Now, I'm sure I've left some out. And forgotten some. But here's my tastebud tingling top ten. Rock tastic.

10. One Of Us Is The Killer - Dillinger Escape Plan

First in the hamper this year is DEP's latest firecracker pot of curious Gentleman's Relish. A whole heap of complex flavours, textures and piquant burning sensations. A terrific progression for New Jersey's mathmess magicians. There's familiar fare with feverish, febrile metallically-tinged mayhem but then a freshly tempered experimental lush jazz fusiony butteriness. 

Tasting notes: Not for the basic palate. Sophisticated but enormously spicy, challenging and fiery. Will cause indigestion on an unsuspecting and empty stomach. 

9. The Blackest Beautiful - Letlive
On opening the latest can of Letlive bisque, you kind of expect a rough and ready, heavy, huge but often indistinct flavoured melange. But this time there's a million different challenging and often bewildering reference points. Swinging wildly between high voltage metalcore/hardcore to hi-nrg dance-infused-auto-tuned, multi-layered-popcorny-pop-schlock. And even rappy/dubby bits. 

It really shouldn't work. But it does. There are huge swathes of Fall Out Boy-esque harmonic complexity, infused with Glassjaw and Minor Threat then put into the blender with Enter Shikari and Whitechapel. But the most lingering aftertaste is honesty. Bollocks-out, peeled back transparency. A truly wonderful if not wholly unexpected experience.

Tasting notes: Like one of those crazy and wanky restaurants serving ragoux and ballotines of animals that you'd normally find in a zoo, on the face of it, potentially unpalatable and downright weird. But the result is an enormously raw, powerful and, at times, strangely beautiful dish.

8. Mother's Ruin - Max Raptor

Right, poncey bisques and relishes to one side, time to pop open a can of foaming punky pilsner. And what a kick. Intelligently brewed with the initial wife-beater headiness and numbing punky strength hiding a brooding and cynical sharpness and sophistication, this is world class brain damage.

Politically and satirically as impossibly sharp as those bastard carpet grippers, any superficial froth or head is soon blown off a deep and curious but heart-warming brew. Heavy in parts but fused with wonderfully familiar anthemic and chest-beating abandon. This Midlands ale gets you all Glaswegian and stripping down to the waist and yelling out of windows pointing fingers like bag ladies and grimacing like you've got yer nob caught in your zip. 

Tasting notes: Powerful, lively, fun, surprisingly sophisticated with a real punch. The strongest, overproof rum-soused in yer face fuck off party punch. You looking at me pal?

7. Wild Light- 65DaysofStatic

After the heady brutal brew, it's time to mix grain with grape. Time to ease the cork out of the latest vintage offering from these most consumate of twiddlers, fiddlers, tweakers and soundscape seducers. 

This is new world zinginess and cleverness mixed with a mind-expanding depth and beauty. Real beauty. There are so many swirling flavours, top notes, base notes and every hemi-demi-semi quaver in between. At times beyond description, smoothness mixed with erratic and jaggedy acidity and full-bodied, hairy-testicled grunt. 

Tasting notes: Seriously heady and mind-altering potency underpinned with a delicious smooth, sophisticated but never clinical or synthetic sterility. Lose your head. Lose your inhibitions. But, whatever you do, don't lose your king sized rolling papers. Man.

6. Muscle Memory - Jamie Lenman
Where do you start? Where do you finish? Superficiality first; this is  the most sumptuous and beautifully crafted packaging in this year's hamper by a mile. But once the packaging is peeled open, what a thing. What a two things. 

The first layer of this delicious and dizzying cake is jam-packed with grenades, evil incendiary devices, trip wires, polonium, 7" stiletto blades, Bazooka shells, shit-tipped sharpened sticks and, well, tears. The emotionally saturated ingredients are blitzed with gravel, double-coil pick ups, drain cleaner and red fire ants and the results are outstanding. Challenging? Yes. Easy on the ear? Not always. Outré? You bet. But outstanding? Thoroughly.

Then we move onto the second layer of this Lewis Carol-like Hadean gateau. And it's buttery. Creamy. Delicious. Sumptuous. Clever. Heartfelt. Honest. Bizarre. But like the top layer, equally outstanding. Swing, bluegrass, George Formby, big band, Burlesque. All in the magimix with the accent on magi.

The former Reuben chef has outdone himself. Such brave and challenging cuisine deserves to be at the top table and Muscle Memory is without a doubt one of the bravest, cleverest and intriguing offerings of the year. 

Tasting notes: A seemingly vile and incompatible marriage of nob-melting chilli and tongue mollifying buttery Victoria sponge. A brave and challenging triumph. 

5. Letters Home - Defeater

Next in the hamper are an overseas delicacy from the Americas. And it's certainly not in an aerosol, a blister pack or smothered in syrup. A jagged rusty can filled to the brim with raw hardcore punk flavoured pork and beans with an haute cuisine twist.

Massachussetts may have given the world chocolate chip cookies and cranberries, but this is far more rarified and sophisticated fare. Ok, you can't dip it in your tea and it won't help with cystitis, but Letters Home should be in everyone's food and medicine cupboards. An unholy union of hardcore and concept album sounds like ship's biscuits smothered in finest caviar. But, it produces a wholly original and stunning sensation.

Moving stories from the Civil War are told through family letters and the effect is jaw-dropping. Whereas most lyrical ingredients in hardcore are sublimated to the effect of the overall visceral output, this masterpiece captivates from the first delicious mouthful to the last. And takes you on an historical, eye-opening journey on the way.

Tasting notes: savage and uncompromising delivery, mercifully short on foam and froth, a surprisingly deep and beautiful delicious heart wrapped in searing and acidic heat, meat and gristle. Bloody delicious. And thought-provoking.

4. You're Listening To The Hell - The Hell

Fried cunt. Cooked by cunts. For cunts. Shit. But addictive shit.

Tasting notes: Cunt.

3. Sempiternal - Bring Me The Horizon
After opening with care and, to be honest not much expectation, this assortment box of metal(core?) biscuits has to be the surprise taste sensation of the year. 

To be honest, BMTH are a bit like sprouts to me. I've never been that keen. They don't taste great, make the living room stink and give you unpleasant grumblings in the gut. But loads of people swear by them and have seen something in them that, like sprouts, fail to get my tastebuds dripping.

Until Sempiternal, that is. What a pleasant and unexpected taste sensation. Brutal in parts. Obnoxious in others. But so skilfully blended into an almost perfect example the dream selection tin with sweetness, spice, crunch, layers and surprises. Metal may not be my personal thang, but this is as good as the dark art gets. A true masterpiece of its genre.

Tasting notes: Salty as a sailor's dick, as sweet as Rachel Riley's peachy butt cheeks, as heavy as a lead box full of weapon's grade uranium or Chris Moyle's lunch box and as hot as Dave Lee Travis's brow every time the doorbell rings. 

2. 13.0.0.0.0 - TTNG
As we get to the very best stuff in this year's groaning hamper, it's time to get all truly sophisticated and reach for a seriously vintage, premier cru glass.

So, they changed their name as a sensitive fuck you to gun nuts, weirdos, NRA ignoramuses and AK47 toting survivalist rednecks, but what else did this most revered and classy producer bring the world this year? 

From the first delicious drop to pass the lips from this wonderful magnum to  the very last fading bubble, 13.0.0.0.0 delivers a sublime and almost orgasmic complexity and beauty. With new vocalist Henry 'Hank' Tremain joining the family, there was a slight nervousness that previous vintages couldn't be matched. We needn't have worried.

The technical wizardry and complexity that underpins this sublime deliciousness never gets in the way of its immediacy and breathtaking gorgeousness. There's light, shade, energy, seduction, pathos, spit and beautiful balance throughout. A truly world class and de luxe bottle of sparkling originality and genius.

Tasting notes: not for lager drinkers, Lambert and Butler smokers or ready meal eaters. This is sophisticated, frail, wonderful and sparkling nectar and should be drunk with absolute reverence and care. Cheers indeed.

1. Blood & Chemistry - Arcane Roots

So, here we are. The biggie. The last box in the hamper. And what a box. Of all the delicious goodies in this year's hamper, Blood & Chemistry is the one for me that stands out for so many reasons.

Not the least, because it has been purposely and meticulously prepares as an entire feast. Not a selection of nibbles, tapas or two or three big numbers surrounded by burger helper or lips and arseholes. This is premium mouth-watering fare throughout. And with all the trimmings.

The very way the album has recurring motifs (lyrically and musically with back references, arcs, repeating chord progressions and themes) sets it apart from so much of the vanilla and pot boilers rammed with prescribed numbers of tracks that so much output laboriously conforms to.

Marry that with the fact that it's been constructed as a single flowing listen with the tracks cleverly and beautifully merged and segued into each other with drones, decaying notes and clever transitions seamlessly leading one from course to course and, hallelujiah, we actually have an album. A complete multi-course considered and lip-smacking banquet. 

In an age of playlist and mixtape dominated listening mores, it's such a beautiful and rare thing to find such a wonderfully conceived and concocted masterpiece. And that's what Blood & Chemistry truly is. 

Veering from sheer power and mind melting riffs to lighter cadenzas and melodic reveries, this, for me is so clearly not only the best album of 2013, but the only true album. Of course the songs all stand alone (and there's not a slack track on it) but the total effect outweighs the individual brilliance and diversity. 

Astonishing. Truly astonishing.

Tasting notes: An 11 (or 12 if you've got the deluxe version) course banquet of astonishing and unrelenting quality. Huge flavours, beautiful, more delicate moments and heady, mesmerising technical skill and flamboyance married with an earthy, raw power and strength that all comes together to produce a perfectly balanced and tantalising mix. Perfection. Bloody perfection.





Honourable mentions.
It's really tough putting together just 10. So, here are a few more world class albums that didn't quite make the hamper:

Siganals - Mallory Knox
A Dan Lancaster-produced slick pop rocky masterpiece with anthems and hooks aplenty. As near to a commercial version of Proceed as we'll ever get. God, I miss them.

Dreamoirs - Dave McPherson
A wonderful, heartfelt, dreamy (funny that) and personal anthology from rock and roll's hardest working and most likeable bloke, InMe front man Dave McPherson. All made possible by his dedication, ridiculous work ethic and dedication to the outstanding Pledge music scheme. 

Asymmetry - Karnivool
The latest chapter in the Tool-inspired Aussie proggers' masterworks collection. All slick, big-boned, grown up serious stuff with the obligatory sing-a-long bits taking more of a back seat in this sophisticated and complex volume.

Great Lakes - John Smith
As good as folk gets. Just wonderful throughout. Plaintive, fragile, beautiful, joyous and uplifting stuff from the bastard living son of Jansch, Martyn and Drake. Spellbinding stuff.

Opposites - Biffy Clyro
A true epic from the Caledonian epic mongers. A lifetime of couch sessions with Mr Neil couldn't get anywhere as near as this window-opening, soul searching, organ and emotion-revealing journey into his oft tortured and unsettled psyche. Brilliant stuff.

Old Souls - Deaf Havana
My, haven't they grown up? A Ferrari-like acceleration into adulthood and all its travails both musically and personally see the erstwhile East Anglians produce a truly grown up and thoroughly well-crafted blue collar collection of angst-ridden emotionally charged splendour. And I didn't mention Springsteen once. Oops.

Nation - TRC
Nasty but brilliant and raw British hardcore (none of that whiney trans Atlantic shit to see here people!) at its very best. Much more sophisticated than initially meets the ear. A truly original and challenging album. One of the year's very best. 

The Top 5 EPs and singles:

Right, time for the smaller stuff that's too tasty not to mention. You know, the widows and orphans of the hamper. The weird little sauces and tins of weirdness that don't fit in with the larger family packs - in short, the wonderful tunes and mini anthology EPs that didn't appear on full length albums.

5. #Spomb (Love Me) - Shockmaster
Skate punk, surf punk, pop punk, #spomb punk. Whatever it is, its lively, fun, aggressive and doesn't take itself too seriously. Well, with Mike Foster driving this bin wagon, what else is it going to be? 

4. Glass Cutter - Polar
Guildford's scene has never been healthier and while bands like Palm Reader and Polar continue to mature and develop without losing even a whiff of their appealing ragged edge, things can only get even better. And if this brilliant and fierce track is a taster of what's to come of the much talked about new album, then we're in for a brilliant 2014.

Adam Woodford's growls and screams have been imbued with melody (you 'eard) and the effect is somewhere between While She Sleeps and TRC but retaining Polar's signature originality and appeal. 

3. Funemployed - Gnarwolves
Brighton's bright young things of the skate punk/pop punk brotherhood produced a box bursting with bangers full of rawness, edge, fun and phlegm (and probably a bit of THC eh lads?). Real street music kept real. Wonderful.

3= Management - Delta Sleep
Three letters: BSM. Big Scary Monsters have helped to unearth yet another slice of complete genius. This was so close to being my no1because of its consistency. Every track on Management is a different colour, a different texture. Yes, its mathy. Yes it's complex and brilliantly, technically played. But it's also catchy, a bit dirty, even a bit punky. Whatever the fuck it is, it's original, brilliant and captivating. If you've not caught these chaps (and chapess) live yet, you have a donut hole in your middle. Fill it immediately. 

2= I Could Be Anyone - Yearbook

Too little output from such an original, classy and wonderful young band. But we've had to make do with this single offering during 2013 (assuming the equally wonderful Art Student was 2012 - brain's a bit rubbish - if it was 2013, then make it joint 2nd with this absolute banger). A heavy chugger, all frenzy, puke and muck but glued together by the ever-tight and impressive rhythm section of Mssrs Dickinson and Martin while Brooker and Halloway do what they always do best: stretch, cajole and caress our organs, senses and squishy bits. Can't wait for the impending long player from these loveable tyros.

2= The Move. Shake. Hide. - Marmozets
Sheer brilliance from the mathy tykes. Guitars, huge choruses, melody, counterpoint, menace, grit, smiles and bowel-massaging power. As good as pop rock math mash ups will ever get. Bloody wonderful.

1. You Wanna Know - Don Broco
Slick, sexy, power pop rock imbued with a simmering sophistication that often goes unnoticed. Loveable ladcore loveliness from the clean-cut quartet who can do no wrong. Unashamedly catchier than Chlamydia and guaranteed to put a smile on even the grizzliest bearded hipster face. With the almost deified Mr Lancaster driving the desk again. Go on, I best you you can listen to it without smiling or joining in with the oo oos.


2013.
Well, that's it. Purely personal choice. And a year in which we've been pretty spoilt by the recorded output. UK rock in particular is certainly alive and kicking and with new music in the pipeline for next year from bands like Spycatcher, Polar, Yearbook, LTA, Don Broco, Trails, Maybeshewill and Hey Vanity among many, many others, then the future's looking seriously bright.

Escape to Victory. Live review of The Dillinger Escape Plan at Koko

The Dillinger Escape Plan *****
Three Trapped Tigers *****
Maybeshewill *****

Koko, Camden, 8th November 2013

On the face of it, tonight's bill is a little like a menu from one of those utterly pretentious 1980s wanky restaurants. You know the kind of thing; a foetal marmoset on a bed of pan fried Albanian grandmother's pubes in a bile and kumquat coulis. It just shouldn't work. Or even be there.

But that's being far too simplistic. And narrow-minded. All three acts are all bound together by a host of DNA similarities. Passion. Energy. Musicianship. The desire to bloody mindedly challenge  the status quo and fart in the face of the average or bland. All mixed up with  a unified and innate 'don't give a fuck' attitude, we're going to do it our way cojones. 

And tonight, even though it's a ridiculously early start for a metropolitan Friday night rock show, London's inquisitive, converted, obsessed and musical libertarian masses are out in force to tuck into this most startling buffet.

Maybeshewill *****

First on the tasting plate are Leicester's post rock maestros Maybeshewill. To a surprisingly big early crowd, they weave a magical delirium and hypnotic mist that old Merlin himself would have been proud of. 

The sound is crystal cear, the lightshow captivating (big up to DEP for letting/insisting that their supports get the full bag of toys to play with - most headliners give the undercard the equivalent of two or three 60w domestic bulbs, a glow stick and hang thick army blankets in front of the front of house) and mesmerising as the quintet take the bearded and plaid-draped throng on an emotional and organ-adjusting half an hour journey that seduces, tantalises and engages from the first perfectly played hemi-demi-semi quaver to the last.

This is far from indulgent muso wank though. It's huge, cinematic, spine tingling and satisfying splendour. Yes, it's clever, but never knowing or self-regarding. The fact that post rock (if it is indeed a genre at all) largely remains vocal-free exposes the music itself, but like a blind man develops better hearing, the absence of a crooner only serves to heighten the musicality and makes it work harder to captivate and beguile.

Thundering  rhythms, stunning stick work, lyrical and melodic reveries and modular arpeggios come together to provide a delicious and truly unique (and surprisingly emotionally-drenched ) taste sensation. Delicious. Bloody delicious.

Three Trapped Tigers *****

After the soundscapes and seduction of Maybeshewill, it's time to turn things up a little on the sensation-ometer. As the next course on this most challenging, exciting and outré meal, Three Trapped Tigers saunter onto the stage and deliver a meaty, jagged, brutal and massive portion of kick-arse. 

This is beautiful, multi layered cuisine, but infused with face melting chili that, at times is off the scoville scale. It's wholly unfair to lay most of the blame for the blistering mind-blowing intensity on the plate of Mr Adam Betts, the drummer. But I'm going to. 

More than just aided by Matt Calvert and Tom Rogerson on banks of keys and guitar, Betts drives this Hadean-bound, fucked up pantechnicon like some meta amphetamine powered demented dervish. No one on the earth surely hits the skins with greater power or precision. It's almost impossible to take your eyes off Betts, despite Rogerson and Calvert's best efforts, he's like Kaa the snake from Jungle book; beguiling, entrancing, mesmeric, stunning.

The barrage continues apace. But it's far from relentless; apart from going through just about every time signature on the planet (and some previously undiscovered) there's genuine contrast, nuance and dynamic to their offering.

Betts' driving is flawless and breathtaking throughout. Even the great Billy Rymer must have the odd twinge of nerves backstage as he waits in the wings. Like Maybeshewill before them, they benefit from the full-on eye-melting lightshow and, again, like their Leicestershire commrades have never sounded better.

This is top drawer music. Combining funk, classical, jazz, metal, fusion - what the fuck ever. Genuinely dazzling. You can call them math rock, noise rock, post modern up your arse on a hook rock. In the end, it's just brilliant. Truly brilliant.



The Dillinger Escape Plan *****

Always a bit difficult contemplating a main course after such perfect starters, hors d'oeuvres and canapés, but the inter-course wait means the by now totally rammed Koko is salivating, drooling and ravenous.

The house lights finally dim and a stygian landscape of screens carrying fucked-up, acid suffused weirdness, words, images and footage that would have happily graced Un Chien Andalou flicker and tantalise.

Then it kicks off. The razor sharp jump lead bulldog clamps are viciously attached to every fold of genitalia in the room and the wattage, ampage and voltage are all ramped to the max. Bodies squirm, dive, surf, ride, fit, spasm, gyrate, ejaculate and circulate. 

Dillinger are like no other band on the planet. They're as raw as a freshly peeled penis rubbed with drain cleaner, as aggressive as a starved tasmanian devil with hornets up its arse, but as calculated and clever as a sack of Harvard-educated weasels. There's no accident here.

The playing, as always is unbelievable technical and skilful maintained incredibly while jumping, diving, crowd walking, climbing, leaping and running. Billy Rymer's drumming, is crisp, polyrhythmic, mind-melting and super-human, the demonic Rasputin Liam Wilson is the heartbeat of the whole cardiac arrest fisting the baying crowd with his deep penetrating bass dildo, while Ben Weinman's and James Love's über-tight pyrotechnic fret work is relentlessly flawless but never predictable or tiring.

And the whole shit circus is lead with vim, vitriol and vigour by the impossibly hench Monsieur Greg Puciato. His eyes bulging almost as much as his ridiculous, thigh sized guns as he preens, snarls, screams and spellbinds the sweating, writhing hordes. The sing backs have never sounded louder or more passionate. The more memorable and melodic refrains in Black Bubblegum, Milk Lizard, the amazing One of Us Is The Killer and Gold Teeth On A Bum almost drown out the huge barrage of noise coming from the stage. 

There's genuine love in the room. But man love. Punching hard on the shoulder and bear hug love. No kissing, fondling or fingering here. And it's impossible not to be caught up in the testosterone-soused love-in.

Dillinger always eschew the norm. Fly in the face of convention. They're never afraid to appal as well as enthral. They are the very spirit of rock and roll. The flag wavers of the middle finger-in-the air generation. Never contrived or ever just going though the motions, they are a fluid, fearless and frightening force of nature and knock just about every other so called heavy, punk, metal, math or rap band into the most cocked of cocked hats.

I can honestly say, I'm not sure whether I actually love their music, hate it, am inexorably and chemically addicted to it or am just intrigued, bewildered and stunned by it. But tonight I fell in love again. In a manly way of course.

Tonight's weird and wonderful bill has been one of the cleverest, most uplifting and refreshing menus I've ever had the pleasure of dining from. For the first time ever, I felt it necessary to give all the acts on the bill of fare five stars. I have been left drained, breathless, hypnotised, sodomised and seduced. And that, my friends is what powerful, engaging, don't give a fuck music should all be about. A bloody men.



 

Circles of influence - Russian Circles and Deaf Heaven Live at The Scala review

Russian Circles*****

Deaf Heaven *****

Astrohenge *****

The Scala

30^th April 2012

Beards. Loads of beards. Plaid. More plaid. Another beard. With plaid. The hippest looking crowd I’ve seen in a while are out in force tonight. There’s definitely more than a Sailor Jerry soaked whiff of industry in the house. And a packed house. Even for the first band.

Astrohenge *****

Don’t know where to start. But I’m not sure if I should have started at all. A kind of uncomfortable mélange of Ozric Tentacles, The Damned, Chas And Dave, Les Dawson, Vadis and Bullet for My Valentine boiled up and served on a bed of wilting King Kurt with a Messhugah coulis. At least that’s what I think it sounded like. 

Zucchini ice cream anyone? 

Instrumental meanderings with chunky, chuggy (apologies to Johnny Doom) guitars. No bass. A keyboard player in a pork pie hat with the gloriously silly name of Dr Oliver Weekes noodling, banging, modulating and hammering away like a four year old with a sugar rush on a Bontempi. And a crazy-arsed possessed drummer. 

Really couldn’t get to grips with it. They looked as though they were having fun though. And a lot of the strong beards in the throng did too. Nodding approval and whooping where required. 

Didn’t hate them. Certainly didn’t love them. The variety and bizarre ingredients just didn’t seem to work. A bit like a bucket of mint choc ice cream mixed with courgettes and pickled onion Monster Munch. 

Rum. Very rum.

Deaf Heaven*****

Even more beards have crammed into the sweaty shoebox and a full, beautiful, complex soundscape seduces the hipsters and hangers-on. Layers, textures, polyrhythms and a cataract of cascading guitars weave a magical air of expectancy.

There’s even Brandon Flowers-a-like lead singer sporting a jaunty Shoreditch fringe and a strong beard swaying and getting into the vibe. Man. Then as the drummer cues, he wanders up to the mic and Gaaaaarrrrrrr.. More gaaarrrrrrrrr. Then some more gaaaarrrrrrrr. Gotta say, wasn’t expecting it. And, to be brutally honest, wasn’t digging it. I love a good bit of screaming. As an underline. To make a point. A neon highlight. Dramatic exaggeration. Anger. Bile. Vitriol. Raw emotion. But this was, well, meh.

Greg Puciato. Eva Spence. Andrew Groves. Steve Sitkowski. Sam Carter and their ilk are masters of it. Even Corey Taylor gets it right occasionally. But tonight, the dapper, achingly cool and Charismatic George Clark just turned into a fucking annoying wasp interrupting a lovely pint of delicious summer cider. Just as you keep delighting in the complex and satisfying beauty of your drink, the bloody thing starts buzzing in your face and ruining the whole experience. His screaming is so one dimensional and lacking any nuance or range, it becomes tedious. And wearing. Like a distant wailing teenager repeating the same monotonic whinge. With all the passion, edge, violence and bombast of a hedge trimmer. Having seen monsieur Puciato put on a near perfect demonstration of the art with the mighty DEP last week, Clark’s attempts are laughable and futile by comparison. Shame. And a let-down to the rest of the very creditable band. Awkward conversation needed.

Russian Circles*****

So, after wasp-interrupted beverage, what would Russian Circles serve up?

An intoxicating, heady mix of post-metal, shoegazing complexity, full flavoured brilliance, subtlety, beauty, brutality. Mesmerising, hypnotising heaviness, luscious layers and loops, full bodied, big arsed riffs, runs and delicious drops. And drums that describe riffs. Seriously. Riffs played on the drums.That’s fucking what.

I’ve not watched a gig with my eyes closed since an Afghan-black hampered Hawkwind gig in Chelmsford over 20 years ago, but tonight, I couldn’t do anything else. Aided by no lightshow whatsoever (initially a major disappointment, as shows are meant to be just that, shows – but soon forgiven as I slowly ‘got it’) I got totally and utterly lost in the moment. Gloriously long and complex passages lulled and caressed my genitals, then thunderous climaxes and drops kicked me squarely on the bellend. This was a non-chemical aided dreamy journey with drama, danger, ecstasy and explosions on the way. The so sadly late, lamented Oceansize are the only band that have come as close to engendering such a hazy reverie. But tonight, I reached a new level of escape. I came out of the Scala feeling like I’d just been swimming in bong water for two hours. Totally numbed. Totally seduced. Totally lost. Totally torn a new one. Wow.

This is what I smoked:

 Carpe 


 Harper Lewis 


309 


Geneva 


Batu 


Youngblood 


Mladek 


Death Rides A Horse


Here's a vid of Harper Lewis from the night:

Boom.


Before I go, as a very sad post script, I must just mention that Fei Comodo have announced they're calling it a day. A truly fresh, original and talented young British band. They will be sadly missed. I just want to wish Marc and the boys all the best with future endeavours. And thanks for some great tunes lads. I'll be there at their final London gig in July with a lump in my old throat I'm sure.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!