Friday 9th Jan - The Victoria Swindon
I’m acupunctured in needle work guitar and trembling church bells. The drum sticks are wedged between the frets, and the notes are chiming like strangled birdsong, all tremolo bent. Those echoes are knitting nicely together, I’m hearing voices in the sway, the type you can almost see out of the corner of your eye, the over wrought structure awash in eerie coloured washes and flashes of beautiful debris.
Ohhhh, those drums are reverbed to death, forcing out a trampoline-like militia that slowly curdles on the rebound, playing tag team with the long-wave radio wasps. A swarm of monkey skulls are chattering in the curving spectres of feedback as submerged vocals become just another texture… the hands in my head are in Summers Isle worship, the folksy, exchanged for taut metal… sharp, teethy and caged…delicious shapes melting on reflections. Later, numb guitar stripes are thrown out on a loop, endlessly puncturing a snappy vox, ranting into jello freefall, each book-ended by a chorus of crazy guitar angles, scribbled wounds to the repartition... the light show all Lynchian ... Bizarrely enough, this track turned out to be a cover of an Arto Lindsay tune – cool is too humble a word...
Eeking out extra distortion, Rajinder fell into the speaker, squeals cut across the density in ugly patchworks… then the guitar cable fell out, ‘it’s not over yet” he yelled out over the applause, but the sound wasn’t showing any sign of returning, so the guitar was slammed to the floor in disgust… 'Well it is now!!!'…
Couldn’t have had a better ending…
I’d recommend you get down to Riff’s Bar on the 21st Jan if you want to experience this for yourself, or failing that catch him in the big smoke a few months later…
I’m acupunctured in needle work guitar and trembling church bells. The drum sticks are wedged between the frets, and the notes are chiming like strangled birdsong, all tremolo bent. Those echoes are knitting nicely together, I’m hearing voices in the sway, the type you can almost see out of the corner of your eye, the over wrought structure awash in eerie coloured washes and flashes of beautiful debris.
Ohhhh, those drums are reverbed to death, forcing out a trampoline-like militia that slowly curdles on the rebound, playing tag team with the long-wave radio wasps. A swarm of monkey skulls are chattering in the curving spectres of feedback as submerged vocals become just another texture… the hands in my head are in Summers Isle worship, the folksy, exchanged for taut metal… sharp, teethy and caged…delicious shapes melting on reflections. Later, numb guitar stripes are thrown out on a loop, endlessly puncturing a snappy vox, ranting into jello freefall, each book-ended by a chorus of crazy guitar angles, scribbled wounds to the repartition... the light show all Lynchian ... Bizarrely enough, this track turned out to be a cover of an Arto Lindsay tune – cool is too humble a word...
Eeking out extra distortion, Rajinder fell into the speaker, squeals cut across the density in ugly patchworks… then the guitar cable fell out, ‘it’s not over yet” he yelled out over the applause, but the sound wasn’t showing any sign of returning, so the guitar was slammed to the floor in disgust… 'Well it is now!!!'…
Couldn’t have had a better ending…
I’d recommend you get down to Riff’s Bar on the 21st Jan if you want to experience this for yourself, or failing that catch him in the big smoke a few months later…
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