A Dusted Review: The Last Train by Roger Turner and Otomo Yoshihide (February 19th, 2015)

In improvisation, silence matters almost as much as the actual playing, something that is immediately apparent on The Last Train, a welcome pairing between Roger Turner, one of the UK’s most vaunted drummers, and Japan’s Otomo Yoshihide, a multi-instrumentalist of wide-reaching tastes and skill, here flexing his considerable musical muscles on electric guitar. I’ve lost count of the number of “free” bands/duos I’ve seen over the years who appear ignorant of that important fact, preferring to square up to or blare over one another in an apparent attempt to assert dominance or prove his or her musical credentials. Seriously, folks, rein it in: if you do, you might actually hear your fellow musicians, surely the fundamental ingredient for group improvisation.

Well, Turner and Yoshihide are old hands, veterans even, and this is not their first foray into free improv by a long shot. The resulting moments on The Last Train where the music of either or both players recedes are fascinating, even captivating, glimpses of two musicians sounding each other out and intuitively plotting where they’ll go next. The album was recorded live, so from the get-go this implied potential fills the ether, as “The Wait” emerges from the speakers with the hum of an amp and the barely-perceptible sound of both men shifting as they take up their positions. At first, their progress is slow, with Turner’s muted, but rapid, patters on cymbals and the edges of his drums flittering around extended single notes from Yoshihide. Every time they build up some momentum, they immediately pull back, creating a tension that only occasionally breaks as Turner cranks up the barrage on what sounds like an infinite number of percussive devices (having seen him live, his set-up is a veritable treasure trove of bells, chains, bowls and blocks), with Yoshihide a relatively mellow sounding board.

The reason for such a tentative approach only gradually reveals itself. By dwelling on lengthy single notes, Yoshihide allows his guitar’s feedback to build up, and as The Last Train unfurls with ghostly patience, he carefully molds the increasingly molten sounds emerging from his six-string until at times it barely sounds like a guitar at all. This all bursts into life on “The Sign,” with Turner dancing around Yoshihide’s squalling half-solos like a dervish, but they almost immediately sit back again for the first half of “Crack’s” expertly crafted 11 minutes. Here, Turner’s jangles on bells and bowls imbues the music with a gamelan-like ritualism, whilst Yoshihide’s guitar acts as a bass-heavy foundation allowing the drummer to throw out percussive blasts and clashes in controlled abandon. “Crack” ultimately culminates with an exhilarating bout of sturm und drang, with Yoshihide coming on like Keiji Haino and Turner channelling the spirit of Tony Williams via Keith Moon, but the will-they-or-won’t-they? build-up is just as thrilling.

Fataka is rapidly becoming a truly essential record label. With The Last Train they’ve added another exciting string to their improvisational bow. Otomo Yoshihide and Roger Turner may have both contributed to more “important” records than this brief session, but here they are in their element, two master musicians exhibiting every skill and talent that makes improv such an exciting and unpredictable genre. And they do so with remarkable—and essential—patience.

A Quietus Review: Pedwar by Rhodri Davies (October 8th, 2014)

Rhodri Davies is not a unique artist and musician, but he’s pretty close. Just like Okkyung Lee with the cello and John Butcher on the saxophone, Welsh harpist Davies totally deconstructs, reimagines and explores his instrument, at times to the point of making it utterly unrecognisable. At times on 2012’s Wound Response, the results were astounding, the harp practically transformed into a vicious noise generator, which Davies then manipulated in ferocious ways, creating one of the most explosively beautiful albums of that year.

Wound Response features in this new box set on alt.vinyl, along with two other previous works as well as his latest, An Air Swept Clean Of All Distance. While there are some similarities between these albums (with the exception of the one-track drone masterpiece ‘Over Shadows’, and even that bears the same formal curiosity and rigour that has long characterised Davies’ work), each one stands as a unique work of art in its own right, with rich details and colourations. The tools are often the same, mind you: harps of varying sizes are manipulated using fans, EBows and other implements, either extending or reducing notes into blocks of sound and texture that appear to rip the instrument’s rulebook up altogether. After all, the harp is perhaps more linked to past musics than any other instrument bar the harpsichord, so to hear it so transformed is both a thrill and a challenge. The term often used for Rhodri Davies’ music is “reductionism”, but the term seems unfitting when the results are so captivating.

Wound Response is, as I’ve written, pretty brutal, a series of crunching robust vignettes that are almost punk-like in their muscularity. Davies’ small harp sounds almost like a guitar, and it’s little surprise that he previously played with Derek Bailey. This is not mere noise, however, and the Welshman is a virtuoso musician, with each track following a dynamic path, as Davies plucks away furiously at the strings, tumbling from one motif to another with balletic dexterity. In doing so, he actually goes against the conventions of what harpists are taught, going so far as to attack the strings with a plectrum. I can see where the term reductionism came from given the probable repercussions of this method (harp’s aren’t exactly robust), but again, it doesn’t sit well given the heights Davies reaches. Trem (from 2001) follows a similar pattern, although it’s shorter and denser, with Davies using free jazz and free improv techniques (crocodile clips on the strings, holding a tamborim against a string whilst bowing close to the soundboard, depressing all seven pedals at once) in front of an audience who must have been as bewildered as they were thrilled. Once again, the harp’s sound is completely transformed, oscillating between clusters of feedback and parping notes that sound like a cross between a trumpet and a piano. Although in a way more minimalist and eclectic than Wound Response, Trem is equally potent and abrasive and a good insight into what a Rhodri Davies concert could perhaps be like.

In contrast, Over Shadows is almost delicate. Although Derek Bailey apparently wasn’t much impressed with Davies’ use of EBows, the latter persisted and the single 30-minute piece that constitutes Over Shadows is in its way as stirring as Wound Response or Trem. Eliane Radigue has previously composed especially for Davies, and there’s something of her patient, unflappable style on Over Shadows, as slow, hesitant drones slide in and out of perception like sluggish waves on a lakeside beach. Davies toys with varied tunings, almost in the “militant tuning” ethos of a LaMonte Young, Pauline Oliveros or Tony Conrad (only quieter than the latter) and the piece gradually builds up into a resonant sonic edifice in which details shimmer and surreptitiously shift like light playing across a window.

The same lap harp as on Wound Response is used again on An Air Swept Clean Of All Distance, but the results could not be more disparate. Eschewing amplification and limiting the number of strings used, Davies accentuates the instrument’s versatility and improvisational possibilities as he relies on his thumbs and fingers to extract texture and rhythm from the harp. An Air Swept Clean Of All Distance vaguely recalls Bill Orcutt’s recent solo acoustic guitar output, but also harks back in no small fashion to the traditional music of Davies’ native Wales, as if he’s reimagining folk for the improvisational age. On each of these albums, Rhodri Davies achieves marvels by almost counter-intuitively imposing rigid parameters on his music, from the tools he uses to the way the albums are recorded. In each case, he finds fresh ways to interact with his harp and fresh ways to jerk his listeners’ preconceptions. That, for me, is the mark of all truly great music and musicians, and Rhodri Davies is certainly one of the latter.

A Dusted Review: Slant of Light by Mary Lattimore & Jeff Zeigler (September 24th, 2014)

The most remarkable thing about this intimate, almost self-effacing record is that it was crafted via a series of improvisations. You wouldn’t think so, to listen to it. Mary Lattimore is a harpist who has played with Wreckmeister Harmonies and Kurt Vile, among others, and her preferred instrument is hardly the first to spring to mind when someone mentions the word “improvisation”. However, in Jeff Zeigler, who enmeshes elegant synthesizer drones with her fragile plucked notes, Lattimore has found a perfect foil and, although slight, Slant of Light contains a number of moments of real beauty.

It would be an easy shorthand to describe the four concoctions they came up with during a snowstorm in Philadelphia as ambient, but that wouldn’t be taking into account the intricate details present on each track. This is not just a case of someone playing a harp over some random electronics, but a sequence of elaborate conversations between the two artists, a coming together of thoughts and minds. It is, mind you, a slow-paced record, as one would expect, with opener “Welsh Corgis in the Snow” (I’m none the wiser) setting the tone: languid notes from Lattimore dance around a blanket of shimmering aquatic drone from Zeigler. The Arctic conditions of that Pennsylvania winter seem to have filtered through the walls and right onto the tape, such is the detached, stripped-down nature of the record, and yet repeated listens reveal hidden depths of warmth and emotion. “The White Balloon” (at three minutes the shortest track) is a swirling waltz of gliding arpeggios from Lattimore and sliding electronic textures by Zeigler, and the overall effect is of being snuggled under a blanket by a warm fire in some cabin out in the Appalachian forests. Lattimore and Zeigler clearly enjoy playing together and this pleasure seeps its way into their music’s otherwise simple structure.

“Echo Sounder” follows this vein of contemplative, emotional introspection, almost at the risk of becoming cloying or predictable despite the elegant playing from both artists, but closer “Tomorrow is a Million” rescues Slant of Light from the clutches of sentimentality by effectively flipping the entire concept of the album on its head. Instead of plucking her strings to produce pretty notes, Lattimore rubs and scratches them, reducing the usually rather saccharine harp to the sound of an atonal acoustic guitar. Meanwhile, Zeigler’s electronics become more threatening, shadowy interjections of noises daubed in echo, like phantasmagorical figures shoving their into focus on damaged 8mm film. The piece grows in intensity, the harp’s strings stretched to snapping point and, after so much prettiness on the preceding three tracks, the effect is frankly spooky. The morose, inchoate end segment only adds to the unease.

In the first paragraph, I described Slant of Light as “slight”, and unfortunately, at only four tracks and 30 minutes in length, it feels a tad under-developed. But there are some truly lush moments in the first half, and “Tomorrow is a Million” points to immense potential on the second. I just wish Mary Lattimore and Jeff Zeigler could have sense this when recording and taken some time to take “Tomorrow is a Million” further.

A Quietus Interview – Nature Eclipses Culture: An Interview With Richard Skelton (March 12th, 2014)

Richard Skelton distills music that reflects both landscapes and the human heart. For many years, he has been exploring the countrysides of Britain and Ireland, pausing when inspiration takes him to record aching, heart-rending string drones in a manner that is as intuitive as it is arresting. His Landings album, initially self-released but later delivered to the wider world via a 2009 reissue on Type, revealed an musician whose musical explorations of the wild landscapes of Britain’s north-west somehow resonated with deep-felt emotions inherent in every man or woman listening to them. With his wife Autumn Richardson, Skelton later formed *AR, enmeshing her beguiling, exquisite wordless vocals with melancholic guitar and string drones to elevate the aura of Landings to new heights – most recently on their latest *AR album, Succession. The Quietus caught up with Skelton via e-mail to discuss his unique relationship with landscapes, the emotional impact of his music and how *AR differs from his previous work.

You are perhaps best known as a musician, but are also a writer and – if this is the correct term – printer. How would you define yourself?

Richard Skelton: I make music, but don’t think of myself as a musician; I write, but don’t think of myself as a writer. This is possibly because I haven’t followed the conventional path of ‘formal study’ to either of those professions, and therefore don’t conform to the stereotype. I don’t consider this a deficiency, in fact, for myself, I would consider self-study the only path to personal discovery. Nevertheless, definitions are useful. On my last tax-return, I think I put ‘publisher’, as I run a small press with my wife. Most of our output is our own work; words, music, pictures, but in 2013 we began to publish the work of others for the first time. It feels good to champion the work of others…

How did you come to form *AR?

RS: I met Autumn in 2008. We discovered a shared love of poetry, music and landscape. Given these sympathies, it was perhaps inevitable that we would end up working together. We initially collaborated in 2009 on a collection of place-poetry entitled ‘Typography of the Shore’, and later she lent her voice to ‘The Clearing’ on my Black Swallow & Other Songs album. Autumn then asked me to add strings and piano to her album Stray Birds. During this time ideas for a larger collaborative work began to take shape. We wanted to create a multi- layered response to landscape; a distillation of ‘place’ through texts, music and artefacts. The resulting Wolf Notes comprised a sequence of place-poems and essays, an album of music and a series of found objects.

From this initial, not-for-sale, work we derived a small ‘folio edition’, which we sold through Corbel Stone Press. Each exemplar was named after a toponym in the landscape, and included the music, texts and a small glass phial of incense. On the subject of toponyms, the root ‘*ar’ is an ancient river-name element, thought to mean ‘starting up, springing up, setting in motion’ – we thought this was an appropriate pseudonym for our collaboration, especially as it also spelled out our initials.

Succession is the second album by *AR. Apart from the fact that Autumn is a stunning singer, what made you want to start using vocals in your music?

RS: I don’t consider *AR ‘my’ music, nor Autumn’s voice as simply an added element to an existing formula, although I can understand how it might be perceived as such. Wolf Notes began with her wordless vocal refrain, which itself was a form of call-and-response; hearing the contours of the landscape and transposing them into song. As such, she would never claim the melody as her own. The music then gradually accumulated around it – a long, slow process of deposition. The strings are therefore embellishments of an initial theme, and the work itself is a collaboration, between her and I, but also with the landscape. This may seem rather fanciful, as simply a metaphor, but we spent many months living in that landscape, experiencing it in all weathers, followed its tracks and frequently losing our way – so there cannot help but be something of it distilled in what we made.

 

Read the rest here.

Richard Skelton plays in collaboration with the Elysian Quartet at Aldeburgh Music’s Faster Than Sound on Friday March 21st (click here for info and tickets), and again at the North East’s AV Festival on 23rd March (information and tickets here).

Much of Richard Skelton and *AR’s back catalogue is available to listen and buy at the Aeolian Editions site, and to keep track of Skelton and Richardson’s activities, click here to visit the Corbel Stone Press site.

A Dusted Review – A Daylight Blessing by Claypipe (February 27th, 2014)

Antony Milton and Clayton Noone don’t so much play songs as strenuously interlink ghosts of melody and tempo. The duo hails from New Zealand and they are immediate descendants of that remote country’s underground heroes: The Dead C, Alastair Galbraith, Surface of the Earth.

But where their elders distorted songwriting norms into maelstroms of noise and avant-rock, the wispy, fragmented compositions on A Daylight Blessing are more tantalisingly lo-fi, fuzzy bedroom-born soundscapes where brittle textures are melded to delicate acoustic guitars and vocals subsumed by layers of haze. If rock and pop are woven into Claypipe’s DNA, they have been stripped of immediacy in favour of the intangible, bringing Noone and Milton closer to the hauntology/hypnagogic scenes of the UK and US than their homeland’s alternative scene (with the possible exception of Galbraith).

A Daylight Blessing is an album blanketed by a poignant sense of loneliness and isolation. Although drone and noise are frequent leitmotifs, the acoustic guitar dominates: subtle, low-key finger-picked melodies dip and swirl at the heart of nearly every track, sometimes bolstered by insistent strumming, notably on the gorgeous nine-minute “Change Course”; but mostly left to flutter meekly as Milton and Noone add on layers of feedback and waves of synthesizer drone. “A Daylight Blessing” feels like a sketch for a Neil Young song (maybe “Pocahontas” or “Penny Arcade”), but one left open-ended as fragile vocals quiver and billow wordlessly (or with the words drowned in effects) and the song drifts melancholically to an unresolved finish.

Even the meatier tracks, such as the robust, chugging “Cloud Shaper” with its brooding electric riffs and punkish DIY feel, or the cavernous industrial creaks of “Tried to Believe,” seem to evolve organically, Claypipe allowing each note or surge of feedback to breathe and stretch to the max. Where Surface of the Earth’s music evokes ruined cities and blackened slag heaps, Claypipe’s, whilst no less morose, is the sound of damp forests and desolate sea fronts, at times sounding as if heard through a dense fog. It’s no surprise to learn that A Daylight Blessing was mastered by James Plotkin, whose work in (post-)metal bands such as Khanate and Khlyst has always been earthy and primordial.

“Forlorn Hope” is even more haunting, an echo-laden wordless mantra drifting listlessly over plucked guitar notes, surrounded by a cloud of ever-shifting haze. Acts like Grouper, Belong and even Philip Skelton spring to mind, but, as with the tracks themselves, never stay long enough to take root. Claypipe’s songs are like scraps of paper swirling in the wind: you can only experience them fleetingly, as they seem to disappear even as they hover into view.

A Quietus Review: Armed Courage by The Dead C (September 25th, 2013)

In this writer’s opinion, The Dead C might just be the best rock act currently active (despite strong competition from the likes of Skullflower, Keiji Haino and Zs, none of whom are quite so rock-centred), precisely because they refuse to become complacent in a genre that allows for far too much room for doing the same thing over and over, to dispiriting levels of popular and critical acclaim (see the fawning reception accorded to My Bloody Valentine’s dreary and uninspired MBV).

As the edge and sense of adventure seems to be getting increasingly sucked out of what was once the most rebellious of musical genres, The Dead C seem more and more to be a refreshing vision of an alternative, more challenging approach to rock, far removed from the pop posturing of so-called ‘indie’ or the delusional pretension of the ATP crowd (Deerhunter, MBV et al.). Listen to The Dead C, and the bland, BBC spittle-coated, coma-inducing celebration of repetition and conformity that is Glastonbury, with its roll call of identical poser bands in skinny jeans, seems a world away, ready to be consigned to the same dustbin of mediocrity as any of the multitude of Ken doll boy bands that the X-Factor vomits out. Which is a nice dream to dwell on.

Which is not to say The Dead C are infallible, of course, and, truth be told, Armed Courage will not go down in avant-rock history as a work that sits alongside past masterpieces like Harsh 70s Reality or The White House. It’s probably not as good as 2010’s Patience. But it’s still a fucking roller coaster of a ride over, above and beyond the tropes of rock music, taking in as it does an overwhelming variety of styles and influences and mixing them together in a great big out-there blender over two colossal 20-plus minute workouts. Truth be told, it is only the tracks’ length that poses a problem, because there is a heavy dose of righteous noise belted out throughout Armed Courage. Side A is taken up by the predictably-named ‘Armed’ (you can easily guess what the other track is called), and it kicks off in a haze of guitar mulch and fluttered drum rolls, a constantly broiling miasma that seems perpetually set to burst into full blown anarchy. Improvisation is a key factor in The Dead C’s recording process, and you can hear guitarists Bruce Russell and Michael Morley probing and darting around each other, safe in the knowledge that Robbie Yeats’ supple rhythmic backbone will always be there to catch them if they fly too close to the ether of chaos.

When Yeats drops out, ‘Armed’ does drift a bit, but it’s the kind of feedback-drenched haze that will slate the needs of, say, fans of Sonic Youth (at their noisy best). The Dead C often seemed to me to be SY’s slightly deranged alter ego, a band born out of the same culture but who refused to echo Thurston Moore et al’s occasional nods towards mainstream expectations. Like many, I was saddened by Sonic Youth’s demise (although Kim Gordon in particular has gone one to release some truly righteous sounds since then), but, gratefully, The Dead C continue to press on, honing and expanding on everything SY promised but only occasionally delivered. ‘Armed’ gathers pace and intensity about ten minutes in, as Yeats’ – otherwise strangely restrained in the mix – kicks out a repetitive martial beat, like a punk take on Neu!’s motorik stride, somehow galvanising Russell and Morley into a furious torrent of guitar mayhem. It matters little that the track starts to dissolve into unfocused sub-Crazy Horse drifting as it grinds to a close: yes, ‘Armed’ is too long, but that middle section is so brutal and unrestrained that all excess is swiftly forgiven.

Initially, ‘Courage’ is more restrained, with synthesizers buzzing inchoately around plucked arpeggios and lonesome one-note interjections from one of either Morley or Russell. Yeats channels the spirit of a free-jazz improviser, scattering rhythms in unpredictable bursts of cymbal or snare rolls. The synth drone builds into a moody cloud and Morley leans in with his trademark groaning vocalisations, the words always just out of reach for the listener. As the piece gathers pace, the noise levels rise, the synths gradually layering themselves over chugging riffs and insistent rhythm. The momentum is acutely akin to the most forceful of krautrock classics, such as Neu!’s debut or Harmonia’s Deluxe, but -and again, this could be a sign of a track overly extended- the trio refuse to stay locked into this groove for long, instead doing a completely about turn and deconstructing their music to its bare bones, with minimal guitar progressions, hesitant synth wobbles and restrained percussion, continuing in this vein in fits of noise followed by near-silence until the track fades into the ether.

Armed Courage will probably be best loved by Dead C fanatics like me, but if anyone unfamiliar with the band who feels the rest of rock is becoming a tad sterile, I can only urge you to ignore the bloated fanfare around such dinosaurs as My Bloody Valentine, Deerhunter or Nine Inch Nails and slap this hulking monolith of a record on your player. It doesn’t necessarily break down the boundaries of rock music, but it sure as shit gives them a good kicking.

A Liminal Live Review: Gravetemple, Cafe Oto, 13-14 April 2013, with Russell Haswell and Crys Cole (April 22nd, 2013)

gravetemple

This weekend features the fourth -and heftiest- showcase thus far of Stephen O’Malley’s Ideologic Organ sub-label, with the SUNN O))) guitarist himself featuring on both nights as part of Gravetemple, perhaps his most experimental act (which is saying something) and which features occasional SUNN O))) members Oren Ambarchi and Attila Csihar. Unsurprisingly, Cafe Oto is sold out on both nights, making it perhaps a daunting prospect for the respective nights’ opening acts Russell Haswell and crys cole, especially the latter.

Haswell at least almost matches Gravetemple for loudness, which takes some doing. The Englishman’s set starts with some precise sound manipulation of field recordings, notably wind and rain introduced by glooming bell tolls. It sometimes evokes the sensitive, evocative work of Chris Watson or, to a lesser degree, Thomas Köner, but the weather sounds slowly dissolve into jittery flutters that may or may not have started their sonic lives as bird wing samples but, if so, are transformed here into jarring industrial thuds and klangs over which Haswell gradually layers pounding synth oscillations. Haswell starts his performance seated at his laptop, but as the piece pitches into a shattering noise climax, he rises to his feet, twisting the buttons on a distortion pedal as the barrage of screeching drone swamps over the audience. It serves as a taste of what Gravetemple will provide later on the first night, the sort of noise wall The Rita would be proud of. I’m not sure what some of the hip SUNN O))) fans are making of it.

On the second night, however, Canadian sound artist crys cole provides a remarkable contrast to the crushing volume of her fellow performers with a set that is strikingly quiet, to the clear frustration of some audience members (London audiences, eh?). Using several percussive (especially a brush stick) or “non-musical” implements amplified by a couple of contact mics. cole’s website describes “a fascination with microsonics that test the limits of audibility and intentionality”, and the ambiguity of the sounds she produces, bolstered by hissing vocal interventions, is interesting, at times even fascinating, but, as many have noted, there can be an element of quietness for quietness’ sake to music like this. The most assertive moments are when she rubs a microphone on a sheet of metallic paper, which delivers distorted crackles but, with cole clearly frustrated by some spectators impatience, the set ends too soon for it to gather any momentum.

The signs that Gravetemple have been planning to be as loud as Oto will allow are apparent from the sound check, which apparently drew complaints from the theatre next door and has the windows rattling as the punters queue outside. Despite this, there’s a great contrast between their two sets, with the first being ear-shattering whilst the other is more nuanced and ultimately nothing short of triumphant. On the first night, Attila Csihar kicks off proceeding by rasping ominously into his microphone (I can’t make out the words, and he tells me afterwards that he mixes languages and even his own invented words) whilst Ambarchi and O’Malley sit impassively with their guitars on their laps. Csihar’s vocalisations are typically dramatic, enhanced by effects that stretch and loop his voice until it becomes a sinister one-man Gregorian choir. When Ambarchi and O’Malley join the fray, they immediately kick into feedback-heavy, sustained doom metal notes at full volume, instantly evoking SUNN O)))’s cavernous take on metal tropes. The volume is quite simply deafening, with the notes held so long that the feedback shudders into one’s guts and rattles the bones. As the low, thundering riffs build and build, often in tandem, the music takes on the texture of minimal drone, with Csihar happy to sit back with his eyes closed and absorb the wall of noise. Gradually, O’Malley starts to crack out some repetitive riffs, whilst Oren Ambarchi distorts and mangles scatter-gun solos via an Electro-Harmonix effects pedal, throwing out metallic, almost industrial noises that only serve to ratchet up the volume levels. Meanwhile, Csihar refuses to let the guitars overwhelm his singing, his bank of effects twisting and contorting his vocals into a series of alien chants. When Ambarchi takes to the drums to bring the piece to a rambunctious close, it seems almost like an afterthought, the volume of O’Malley’s riffage almost completely masking his brittle polyrhythms.

Csihar admitted to me that Gravetemple’s first set was a bit too loud and ramshackle, and boy do they make amends on Sunday. This time proceedings are started with the guitars, and more of the familiar, imposing and loud doom riffs, with similar levels of monomaniacal sustain as Ambarchi and O’Malley displayed on Saturday, although with greater levels of understanding and variety. O’Malley once again unfurls some sturdy riffs, whilst Ambarchi almost transforms his axe into a six-stringed noise generator. Csihar’s vocals are even more imposing this time, as he has more space to weave his oblique narratives into the mix. Midway through the set, the volume drops, allowing for expansive, droning flourishes married to Csihar’s gothic rumbles and saturated moans. With a more subtle approach than the previous night, Gravetemple display the full range of their talents, enhancing how open-minded the trio is, and how they use metal archetypes as a mere launching pad to explore more diverse sonic realms. They slowly twist and re-build a piece that increasingly takes on epic proportions, culminating in a mantra-like finale where O’Malley’s righteous guitar playing and Csihar’s incomparable vocal turns fly ever-upwards, propelled by another bout of octopus-like drum thrashes from Ambarchi, this time properly amplified to transform the sound into an almost psychedelic workout. It’s all brought to a thrilling close when Ambarchi pounds on a gigantic gong, leaving O’Malley’s dying notes and Csihar’s final invectives to be drowned out by the audience’s rapturous applause. This showcase at times risked falling into self-indulgence but, guided by these three stalwarts, ended on a note that touched on transcendence.