Truant, Clough, Hobo Sonn, Vile Plumage, Hagman, Early Hominids
Wharf Chambers, 24th November 2012
To the Wharf Chambers then for the second night in three days and why not? Its a friendly place where the beer is fairly cheap and the mint tea, for those not wishing to indulge, costs but 50 of your new pence. They’ve beefed up the heating and put a couple of doors in so that when the smokers leave for their fix the shitty weather doesn’t fill the place with cold gusts. Which is needed because its filthy out there. Its also Filthy in here. In his Vile Plumage guise the Filthster and partner in skull mask Andy Jarvis sang a bogmans lament that involved two radio cassettes and some mini amps. It was a muezzins call from a minaret in Stoke-On-Trent, a bone chilling death rattle from the slimy streets of Burlsem, all this taking place in the bar prior to the venue to the delight of all the punters saving one who took exception to some extra curricular violin smashing from noisy Pete and had his phone rendered useless for his troubles. All part of the fun. And then, as if by some magic going back in time button, it was the Bongoleeros with the Filthster aided by his long time partner in grime who whipped him around the floor of the Wharf Chambers bar with his own belt singing about the some madness or other. Fucking hell.
I’m on the Sam Smiths cherry beer having left the limo in Cleck. Early Hominids have been on the Delirium cherry beer in some trendy pose hole near the train station and judging by the volume they’re playing with I think they’ve had plenty more than me. Their set is seriously loud, SERIOUSLY LOUD in a ‘I can feel my clothes vibrating’ kind of way, my chest is vibrating, I can feel my skull vibrating, when certain high pitches are reached my ears begin to hurt and the best thing is this, it never, ever for one teeny tiny micro-nano-second deviates from enthralling. The quality of the PA in the WC is such that the clarity of the sounds being emitted are still a delight even at such giddy volumes. Its a swirling psychedelic shit-storm of weevils and gadgets that at times reaches Jap noise at its best levels and at others wipes the floor with some of the noise bands I’ve seen here in recent weeks. At its beginning they let the doo-wop that's been playing between acts bleed into it until it becomes enveloped in the tumult. At its conclusion the Toddmiester looks at me and says ‘loudest thing I’ve heard since Hijokaidan in Glasgow’. Fucking hell.
The night turns into one of those magical evenings where everything that you hear seems to fit perfectly with your mood. Hagman drift sublimely along a path of beautifully nuanced drone. The two Thomas’s stand at either end of a table, one playing a homemade thumb piano, scraping it, plucking it, rubbing it into groans and gentle twangs whilst the other turns a never ending number of dials. It drifts effortlessly.
Then we get Vile Plumage again, this time on stage with more gear to go at. They produce a dirty undulating noise groan piece that I found strangely compelling. Like a slowly degrading Pain Jerk with the noises sludged to ruptured farts and wheezing machinery. Its eerie, disturbing, dirty noise that needs to wipe its feet before it steps on the Axeminster. An unsettling sight and one to savor.
And then Hobo Sonn whose two man home made synth, field recording, electronica balm is one part Spoils & Relics Kieron and one part Brighton resident Ian Murphy. The effect is one of great expanse, spatial awareness, the home made synth is caressed with gently swirling fingers, a low rumble appears over the horizon, ominous synth drone, skittering sounds like flocks of small birds being scattered, like being sat at the bottom of an empty stainless steel silo.
Bringing up the rear are Truant. Back in the saddle after a ten year hiatus they begin with a Cloughie solo set that's a bare oscillating drone coaxed from an analogue synth and then the Toddmeister, first on keyboard, then on guitar, stage right is Rob Hayler leaning heavily into something producing heavy drones whilst disappearing under his fur lined anorak and its all a swirling, floaty drone world that's like Emeralds on nights.
Outside its pissing it down. A drunk vomits as we pass him on Boar Lane. I think he’s been waiting for an audience. Its been a filthy night but one to remember.
[Over at Sheepscar Light Industrial you can relive all of the above - minus the bar shenanigans - via some tasty downloads - http://sheepscar.blogspot.co.uk/]
