Prog lives!
A soiree of rock and roll recess – bank holiday, innit – which, whilst admittedly featuring two bands nestling more towards straight up, banging psychedelic rock, definitely features an average song length well surpassing a pithy ten minutes; plus some noodling; plus some trippy reverb (minus the requisite acid-flavoured visuals unfortunately) – that makes it prog.
Don’t argue, I know what I’m talking about (I don’t).
Largely an alien subculture to this intrepid reviewer, in fact it’s a pleasure to see it is extant at all.
I even get handed a flyer for an upcoming Gong gig and they were dead before they even started – in 1847.
All that aside, variety is the spice of life, my friends and there is an honesty and lack of pretence about all three bands… and the audience as well.
It’s a curious fact that within the musical universe ‘rock’ rock gigs are, without fail, the most polite gatherings of all.
They may feature raucous riffing and t-shirts, like the one I spot in the audience, featuring both Swastikas and Stars of David – covering your bets there, son – but more than once I am asked if I can see all right; you don’t get that at Elton John.
Heroically named openers Sloth Metropolis give off the slight air of the school band done good, but it’s a pleasing enough effort: plus points for violin action and the enthusiastic madman on bass.
Up next Holy Mountain take things up a notch with a more stripped down aesthetic, but utilising a rampaging rhythm section: some guitar as phallic symbol activities also which goes down well.
Long and firm *cough* it’s good natured and pretty lively.
I pop outside for a tactical fag and note the neighbouring pub is showing all 186 of Steven Gerrard’s goals for Liverpool; I manage 25 and return to the same jolly tune I left on.
Admirable and powerful though and since my most recent brush with things vaguely in this hemisphere was the truly truly appalling and reprehensible Kerrang tour I nod along with relief that somewhere out there this kind of thing hasn’t been entirely reduced to skinny-jeaned, pretty boys who quite frankly could be knocking out Avril Lavigne covers.
San Diego three piece Earthless scootle on for the finale and set the dial straight to the heart of the psyche rock wig out.
Entirely instrumental it’s a take no prisoners, no concession, purist performance (am fairly sure after 40 minutes we’re only on track two).
A slight note of disapproval is registered when realising the fellow with the lead axe (I’m in the lingo-zone now) is the same chap I saw scowling after being asked to sign a poster purchased by an enthusiastic fan but hey… fame sucks.
That apart it’s a noisy, muscular blast along and they sure can play: the drummer in particular is a beast… in the best possible sense.
Anachronistic?
In many ways yes.
But perhaps that is the beauty of this fetid brew of musical expanse – people everywhere are doing all sorts of things and there is a devoted fanbase to match: dip your toes in… or don’t.
Do see if: you fancy a trip to an overlooked but fundamentally honest genre in rock’s history (with a touch of modernising).
Don’t see if: you want owt signed.
Words: Andrew Morrison
Photos: Nadia Murdoch
