A man takes the stage. Shirt tucked into dark jeans. Perhaps's he here to talk about library indexing systems. Instead Alex Ward plays guitar alongside drum machine beats. Math-metal fret dexterity. Like some Jap noise stuff that I can't remember.
A table is dragged out with Horacio Pollard's gear on. There's a low end rumble with high pitched bursts of static, like a modem making a connection. He plays a guitar which has been given some kind of vocoder effect. The set loses it's way. Nothing seems to change.
The guitarist in Nought looks familiar. Before they play he contorts his wrist and fingers into hideous torture positions. I guess he's just limbering up. They then deliver a set of prog rock excelsis. Superbly unnecessary comlex time changes.
The lights are turned off, shrouding the stage in darkness for Bong's set. Out of the ominous bass thrum emerges sitar murk. The guitarist holds the ceiling as if it's threatened with collapse. Bong's singer, a bearded giant of a man, intones Druid incantations into the microphone. The band crawl along at a funereal tempo. Bong are an emersive experience. They don't deliver catchy hooks, just slow motion pyrotechnics as they gaze into the psychedelic nebula of cosmic infinity. Sinewy sitar runs attempt transcendental lift-off whilst anchored to the bass drone - a single universal truth of culture, dimension and time. Revelation is bestowed on me. I am eternity.
Anyway, work tomorrow.
Jon Gibson - Two Solo Pieces
5 years ago
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