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Indian Jewelry/These Are Powers/Elapse O - Bardens Boudoir, London, 13 November 2008

Elapse O. Laptop with pre-programmed beats and shifting, harsh, tones from two guitars. They leave me completely uninspired. Time passes. They end.

On the stage These Are Powers are setting up. I had never previously considered the impact of 9/11 on touring noise rock bands. They have a suitcase full of effects pedals inside which they have written "fragile electronic musical instruments". Airport security must be a frequent hassle. Primitive drumming. A bit kraut like early Sonic Youth. The whooped and yelped vocals remind me of ESG. Guitar hurtle locked in with the drummer who crouches over his kit like it's in danger of getting away from him. He's got lots of extra kit which allows him to play expand the sound of the band, but they're better when they keep it simple, and pummle away.

Indian Jewelry's thudding psych is buried in murk. Two guitar white noise attack. Merciless drum machine rhythm is augmented by the relentless discipline of the live drummer. The effect is like Ministry in slow motion. The epilepsy inducing flashing lights counterpoint their methodical mechanical clank. They're good but they don't transcend.

Skaters/Axolotl/Family Battle Snake - Cafe Oto, London, 30 September 2008

Why do noise performers never introduce themselves? It's as if they're embarrassed to be there. Family Battle Snake moves to the front of the audience. He waves at someone to turn the lights down, then gives all his attention to the array of gear on the table in front of him.

His base is a thick, strong, tone-drone. Other textures are bled in. A descending, repetitive, droop is introduced, then oscilliated up. A few notes break through like a primitive form of artificial intelligence attempting to create music. The drone backing drops out revealing a melody like a malfunctioning Simon Says game. It morphs into sonar pings played on a submerged piano. A scrabble like a needle left in a run-out groove drifts in, before melting into transporter shimmer. A few declamatory blasts like someone slumped on a church organ ends the performance. Family Battle Snake gives a half wave to the audience and hastily seeks a return to anonymity. 

At first I it seems Axolotl is sound-checking. Actually he's begun. He begins with a cheap casio beat, a Nintendo kind of sound. Metallic drumming is added. A violin is produced and bowed. You can't hear it so much as sense it on the fringes of your hearing. A fog horn clears out the casio beats. There's some vicious bowing. And then, suddenly, the end.

Skaters are another solo performer. It starts like a Chinese orchestra tuning up. There's no hurry to add anything else into the mix. Fragments of a recorder are eventually dropped in. The sound doesn't change much. Skaters seem to focus on almost imperceptible points of detail within the open spaced white noise. We get circular breathing murk, then a high pitched whine like a finger being circled round the rim of a wine glass. Dry sax runs follow, like someone practicing off-stage, and a sound like a guitar howling into a void. Having spent the whole gig bent over with his back to the audience, Skaters briefly faces us at the end of his set, then slips away. 

Spectre Folk System/Beach Fuzz/Part Wild Horses Main On Both Sides - Cafe Oto, London, 19 August 2008

Part Wild Horses Mane On Both Sides begin their set with slow rattles and scrapes. Drums and flute provide the foundations of their sound, endlessly mutated through effects pedals. They build the sound adding layers of loops. The drummer seems to be wearing a microphone around his neck, presumebly so he can add growls from his throat. There is flute wheeze and drum tumult. Towards the end of the set the drummer is caught up in an ecstatic pummelling of his kit, endlessly shifting the tones of his beats. The flutist though has begun to sound rather one note.

Perhaps I let my anticipation get in the way of Beach Fuzz. The last time I saw them they played 30 minutes of smouldering psychedelic improv. That night they started quiet and built towards the wig-out, here, they launch straight into the vortex. I can't really hear the guitar. It's not working for me. Then I close my eyes. Maybe I was watching and listening to the drummer too much. I can hear the guitar now. At least I think it's a guitar. It has two necks and lies flat on the guitarists lap. I'm not sure he knows how to play it. I open my eyes and see the drummer disappear into a behind a cloud of dust. The marraca he was drumming with has exploded.

I've been working long hours and I'm feeling tired by the time Spectre Folk System are ready to play. They start with slow-motion psychedelic Pavement-isms. It's a vibe they don't really shift from. Most of their songs are the same pace, with an extended jam section two thirds of the way through. The fact that I'm very near falling asleep heightens the laid-back psych groove. Things spin, spiral it's an ancient quest for the portal to rocks twin solar system. It's a dark night lets look at the stars.

Comets On Fire/Voice of the Seven Woods - The Luminaire, London, 5 July 2008

I'm not a musician. I've never played a gig. So I always wonder why people rarely ever say who they are when they're on stage. Especially when the gig posters don't list any support. Maybe they're famous, and I'm ignorant. Or maybe they're actually called Support TBC?

I'm pretty sure it's Voice of the Seven Woods who's opening. He starts by conjuring a droning loop from a trumpet. The distorted tone is like someone's slumped against a synthesizer. Over this he plays classical guitar, cascades of high notes cutting through the murk. Then the drone suddenly drops out, leaving the guitar, and dextrous, finger-picking runs.

The second track opens with a looped, stoner-rock, riff. Slow and ominous, it builds evolving into an unending eliptical raga, an abrasive blizzard of fuzzed, blurred notes and muted out white noise. Like sawing metal or a shimmering heat haze.

There's excitement amongst the crowd. A man whoops in my ear. His friend must have suggested he calm down, as I next hear: "But fuck man, it's the Comets On Fire." Before letting off another klaxon-like roar next to my head. And for the first half of their set I can understand his anticipation. Their hot-rod, redux version of Sabbath and MC5 scorches. Their collective epiphany to abandon everything that isn't ecstatic climax. But just as it might become a classic gig, Comets lose their way mid-set. Degenerating into bluesy, jams with anaemic riffs, their mission to destroy forgotten. Maybe this is how they pace a set, but for me it's dull, in parts even reminiscent of Zappa-like wankery. Clearly the man lost in a shamanic dance would disagree. For the last song they return to the searing, super-novas of the first half of their set. Despite the roar at the end of their set, the audience quickly filter away, and there's only a few, isolated calls for an encore. Maybe I'm not alone in thinking the mojo deserted them.

Sunburned Hand of the Man/Michael Flower/Tom Greenwood - Corsica Studios, London, 15 June 2008

I get to the Corsica Studios and Michael Flower, of Vibracathedral Orchestra, has already started. Over a sitar-type raga drone, he plays acid-y rock guitar lines. You can just let your mind lock on and let it burn slow. I should have got here earlier.

Tom Greenwood starts quietly, like the Grateful Dead in a somnambulistic mood. Apparently, Greenwood is the founder member of Jackie O. I'm not familiar with them so can't say how this fits in with their work, but it sometimes reminds me of the passages on In A Silent Way before Tony Williams drums kick in.

Sunburned's set is proceeded by a dramatic Morricone like thriller score. The tension is somewhat undermined by the fact that it takes the band five minutes to shuffle on stage when the music ends. The atmoshere doesn't entirely disapate though. Large branches are soon banged against the floor in a slow, steady, rhythm. A shimmerng metallic crunch is added as sheets of tin foil are wrapped around the branches, and someone mumbles away into a microphone, as a strobe light's intermitent flashes illuminate blasts of dry ice. The tempo is steadily increased, guitars and electronics fall in, then spin-off from the heavy, percussive, groove. It's a hell of a set opener. Their second song - an aimless, boring, jam - makes you wonder if they peaked early. But it's the worst track of the night, and Sunburned get back to the mind dementing, frazzled, fried, psych-rock.

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