Chromehoof @ Offset 30/08/2008

Chronic, and cataclysmally dazzling. Mighty Chromehoof slew us, with a broadsword to the heart, then conjured the shards of our shattered souls from the dust with a devastating disco beat. I never knew that I could jump and headbang like that at the same time. Magnificent, supreme.

Acid Mothers Temple and the Cosmic Inferno @ Corsica Studios

I have a nagging ringing in my right ear every time I close my jaw. The point where my skull meets my neck is vaguely aching. Yesterday I went to see Acid Mothers Temple and the Cosmic Inferno in Elephant and Castle. In front of a chunky stack of amps on the right-hand side of the stage guitarist Kawabata Mokoto radiated effortless metallic glory shredding relentlessly like the demented old uncle of Herman Li from Dragonforce. I don't think I saw a single drop of sweat come off that guy's forehead and when near then end he thrust his guitar up with one muscled arm to deflect the laser into the crowd amidst feedback and fuzz it felt like it might have been ultimate energy. Adorned with long wizard sleeves and silver beard Higashi Horishi swayed high over crowd and keyboard like a mystic poplar of portent, clearly illuminated by the divine cosmic connection that reveals itself to you after three bottles of red wine. Effortlessly immense and relentlessly fun, two hours and the tiny dark den of Corsica Studios couldn't contain the universe-inspired rock resplendence of these willowed old masters. And perhaps it was the wine, but they seemed in top form. "Perhaps you don't remember him .. last time we came he was thin: now he is very fat" joked Makoto of bassist Tabata Mitsuro, later professing unashamedly to capitalist tendencies as he entreated us to give up all our money at the (overwhelmingly equipped) merch table: turns out the poor guys had been taxed £600 to send everything over from Japan. "Please Queen help us" he beseeched. With drummers Shimura Koji and Pikachu ("Like father and daughter" joked Makoto) feeding perfectly into one another to add extra layers of minute detail to the underpinning rhythm, and a pretty constant undertone of screeching fuzz, A-M-T raised a holy hell-storm of metal prog-psych of interplanetary proportions, light-year speed and zen endurance.

Guapo @ ULU (Supporting Red Sparowes) 08/07/2008

Guapo are four guys who are very talented and probably a little unhinged. They play prog proper, of quirkily compelling character and of plenitudinous proportions. The wandering journey of a long song (or was it several?) that formed their set was an ongoing exploration of the strange and complex textures that their respective instruments could weave together: an epic interplay of guitar, drums, keyboard, bass, each spinning its own private spiritual path around the others - always in balance and never quite touching - to create a sound at once naive and deep, intricate and whole, organically electric. More than anything these guys knew how to draw the essence out of their battered instruments; pedals and keyboard effects seemed to unmask rather than distort their true character. The hunched keyboardist hammered at the keys as though he were prophesising on a vast organ in a lonely cathedral; the drummer carefully tinkled a little string of bells around his drumkit using nothing but space and air to gain new perspectives on a sound; the curly bassist pulled a clipper out of his jeans pocket to slide ethereally up and down the fretboard. Complete with sparkling lycra shirts, Guapo are all the visionary insight of the old prog masters made present as an intuitive understanding of their own powers of creation and of their connectedness with one another; with their audience; with earth and cosmos; and with the more mischevious and darkly magical forces in the universe that like to lead us astray once in a while.

Gallhammer @ The Water Rats 12/03/2008

Arriving at Kings Cross’s theatrically chandeliered little venue, the Water Rats, through horrible winds, the heavy stagnant atmosphere of hair and battered leather was almost comforting as we walked in. Tonight’s headliners – Tokyo’s all-girl doom metallers, Gallhammer – have been signed to Peaceville for a while, which might help explain the rather classic aesthetic of the crowd gathered for their first UK gig. There’s none of the self-righteous ‘new-band’ buzz in the air here then tonight; the excitement is purely anticipation of what everyone already knows can’t fail to be a damn awesome show. Openers ‘Leech Woman’ were three guys chugging hard to a heavy industrial backing track that sounded at times like it might have come from the musical ‘Stomp’ (metal poles and dustbin lids and all of that). Their unconvincing grimaces, especially from the munchkin-faced pink-dreadded vocalist, kept us totally entertained as they worked their way from ‘cunt’ t-shirts to bare chests. And it was the sense of fun and entertainment the whole way through that justified their presence when really they could have just recorded and looped themselves along with the percussion track for the same musical effect. And if nothing else, as an opening act, they were really reassuringly Loud. The Sontaran Experiment were louder. And their nearly vein-popping snarls and maniacal grins seemed alarmingly real. Their sound was alternately dense, soaring and frenetic, as tortured apocalyptic vocals (“there is no hope left for us”) were contorted and transformed into horrific artificial screeches through wierd machines and frenzied outburst of twisted prog solos were enveloped by feedback. I could literally feel my eardrums rattling: it felt like we were trapped inside a dark box as soundwaves shot through us and bounced off the walls again in all directions... in fact I felt like the autistic kid in the red room in Cube. No real need to elaborate on Gallhammer’s set then. Satisfyingly amazing, like a plan coming together... you couldn’t help but bang your head and clench your fists, but then you noticed that everyone around you was doing it too, and everything was fucking great. The only let down was the lack of encore when it should have been on the cards.... but what can you do? The music stops, people become aware of their surroundings, and the creeping ghost of London nonchalance starts to infiltrate the crowd and no one bloody keeps shouting. Disappointing, but we still left as stupidly grinning and happy as kids from a sweetshop, full of metal like it was made of e-numbers and sugar.

Mastodon are Scary

“There was definitely no selling out whatsoever.” Troy Sanders told an Illinois magazine after signing to Epic. Today I received the following blog post on Myspace:

"Exclusive Mastodon Halloween Merch Now Available!"

Awesome. These T-shirts are both glow-in-the-dark... That's gonna be even more impressive in the crowd at Wembley Stadium 5 years down the line than a battered gig shirt from 1995. By far the best rock t-shirts since Pelican's gold-foil Rose Nylund design earlier this year. Available from their website... make sure you order yours in time for Hallowe'en. Definitely a more stylish costume than this incredible abomination and this strange Fork costume.

Napalm Death Consigned to the Dustbin of History

So apparently Telegraph readers* don't feel no love for Napalm Death no more. Source: Telegraph Twat Craig Brown's column on the unresolved rivalry between housewive's favourite Tony Blackburn and the late, great John Peel, as detailed in Blackburn's two autobiographies ('Tony Blackburn: The Living Legend' and 'Poptastic! My Life in Radio'), of which Brown professes to have read both. A fraud and merciless opportunist is the accusation levelled at the dead John Peel by the unfortunately still alive Tony Blackburn, who alleges that John Peel never actually liked any of the terrible tuneless crap that he played on his shows, but thought he could gain a following with it nonetheless. But scandalous accusations aside (given that no one who matters is ever going to read them), Brown sides with Blackburn as likely to survive Peel's inevitable historical obsolescence on the basis that only "a catchy tune and a simple lyric" will truly pass the test of time. Drawing from the bands listed in each of their autobiographies, he reasons: "Comparing these lists it seems inarguable that posterity will crown Tony Blackburn the surprising victor. Groups such as The Supremes and The Temptations who were scorned by Peelite hippies as "commercial rubbish" in the Sixties are still played by us all, whereas Napalm Death and Captain Beefheart lie untouched in old cardboard boxes at the back of the cupboard beneath the stairs."

*Old people who spray spit at you when they talk (most likely about the societal menace of 'hoodies' and immigration) - and me, when they're free in coffee shops.