ALBUM REVIEW: Miwa Gemini - This Is How I Found You

I feel ashamed and somewhat perplexed for knowing nowt of New York-based multi-instrumentalist Miwa Gemini’s previous output. Her feisty mew is cut from the same cloth as the vengeance-seeking felines who so brightly illuminated my younger years; y’know, the likes of Holiday, Harvey, Simone and Cline - the ones so intent on righting the wrongs of their good-for-nothing partners they drove a repentant dagger through the testosterone-riddled bones of all heart-breaking rapscallions.

Yet here I am, immersed in the heart of Gemini’s second long-player This Is How I Found You having never once encountered the rasping lash of her sultry tongue – and what a terrifying privilege it is. Because behind the curtain of this devilish, jazz-tinted affair lies a world where no man dares tread; a bubbling cauldron of deep-seated female emotion where us fellas play the pathetic part of drunks, philanderers, scoundrels and reprobates. And with every intrepid spin of this frothing, seething record, I begin to feel like a fraudulent makeup-caked, dress-draped, balloon-bosomed charlatan certain to be uncovered then hung, drawn, quartered and fed to a ravenous pack of men-hating vixens.

Perhaps such graphic depictions do Gemini a disservice, after all no record so entrenched in bitter retribution could have been crafted this diligently without having experienced mankind's (or should that be womankind's?) propensity to love. But amidst vampish, vitriolic tracks like ‘Pieces’ and ‘Crazy Over You’ dwells a darkly attired chanteuse ridden with animosity, loathing and repulsion; the sort of girl that says: “come one step closer and that ‘thing’ you call a truncheon will amount to little more than a pitiful excuse for a coat-peg” while a flesh hungry meat-cleaver glistens menacingly in the grooves of smooth effeminate fingers. And, as her soaring vocal marauders through the stifling rape of keys and snarling riffage emitting from ‘Travelling Man’’s blues-ridden haemorrhage, you’d certainly never wish to underestimate such gruesome threats of genitalia butchery.

Of course, in possessing that canny guile of scorned maidens everywhere, Gemini can embellish her wrath with effortless poise – strewing fluttered eyes glinting with lustful sexuality across ‘Room of You’’s whispered bed-baiting or the coy suggestiveness of the cotton-soft ‘Paperwhites’ – but these tender moments cease dramatically during the intersection of ‘Angel’s Prayer’’s magnificent nocturnal witchery. Gently guided by our hostesses initially muted tones, it erupts as a barrage of exasperating gothic fury that embroils her newly-acquired ragged exertions within a cacophony of blistered drums and unrelenting guitar.

In truth, it’s a track that’s as petrifying as it is terrific and one which quite possibly explains why I’d never previously acquainted myself with Miwa Gemini's mercurial talents. But, like some lecherous, slavering dog-on-heat that embodies much of my gender’s regretless libido, I have a sneaky suspicion I’ll keep coming back for more.

Rating: 7/10

First published here

LIVE REVIEW: Long Blondes, Cabaret Voltaire, 19 March

The trouble with reinvention is that it often leads to confusion. Take the self-appointed Queen of Pop, Madonna, for instance. One minute she's a prowling, cock-hungry chanteuse, the next an electro-lit hippy-chick and now, it would seem, she's all bingo-wings and muscles, directing shit films while leeching off fellow careering connoisseur Justin Timberlake. Christ only knows what her original fanbase thinks of this latest incarnation, but I'd imagine they consume Madge's wafer-thin Optimus Prime-isms (y’know, she's a transformer…) with a kidney disease-inducing pinch of sodium chloride, if even at all these days.

Now, this may well seem like a tenuous attempt to link Mrs Guy Ritchie with The Long Blondes but anyone who's heard the Sheffield ensemble's new LP Couples has to admit there are definite parallels to be drawn in both acts' predilection for reinvention. The record is the antithesis to the chipper schmindie-punk of 2006’s debut Someone To Drive You Home and one that's sure to polarise a fanbase made up of vintage shop fashionistas and hair-straightened pretty boys as it straddles the robo-pop bandwagon currently pillaging its way through the British charts.

So when the quintet take to the stage of a sold-out Cabaret Voltaire, it’s fair to say there’s a certain amount of apprehension in the ripple of applause that greets them tonight. And as they launch into the ring-rusty goth-groove of recent single ‘Century’ there’s considerable weight behind the suggestion that reincarnation isn’t to the benefit of all. Perhaps it’s down to the aesthetic anomaly of witnessing Pride and Prejudice-dressed front-gal Kate Jackson gyrating to a futuristic blur of bass and metallic riffage, but this underwhelming intro does little to ease the concerns of an increasingly subdued audience.

Made up almost entirely of cuts from their forthcoming record, the set will no doubt have disappointed those who ventured out for a night of unabashed scruffbag sing-a-longs, but as the first-song nerves erode, Miss Jackson and her skinny-fit cohorts pull out a showing that signifies a steadfast belief in their new direction. The backseat breeze of ‘The Couples’ is first to impress, impregnating the venue with a summertime fluster of guitar janglery that eventually cascades into the basal impulse of ‘Too Clever by Half’, a track that gloriously accentuates Jackson’s wispy mew amidst the lustful nuzzle of a slow-handed nocturnal rhythm.

Having witnessed many an act stumble spectacularly when confronting the perils of change, there’s an admirable air to the way The Long Blondes sure-foot through the sugar coated confectionary of ‘I Liked The Boys’ and ‘Erin O’Connor’ without any self-questioning trepidation. Admittedly, a portion of tonight’s crowd – the ones here to be ‘scene’ - appear ill-at-ease with this new-fangled beast sprawled before them, but in the glam-stomp glow of ‘Here Comes The Serious Bit’ and ‘Guilt’’s milky-pop aloofness the heads of less-image conscious sceptics are turned, senses perked by each track’s sleek, Blondie-like reverberations.

Despite the wilful presence of these new numbers, the rapturously received arrival of angle-jerking closer 'Giddy Stratospheres' is the truest indicator of the band's standing at present: caught between wide-eyed reminiscing and the future’s un-sauntered pastures. But on the strength of tonight’s triumphant display, it’s safe to say The Long Blondes will make their move much more credibly than a certain decrepit, genre-hopping hag.

Rating: 7/10

Photos by Loraine Ross
First published here

Record Review: Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra & Tra-La-La Band - 13 Blues For Thirteen Moons

Two distinct factions exist within the music reviewing fraternity: there are those quite prepared to give a record a flawless commendation and those who would never entertain such notions of perfection. I belong to the latter sect, believing that absolutely nothing merits a glittering array of 10 golden stars. Of course, it’s an entirely different proposition when dealing with a five-point scoring system – a full house tends to equate to a 9 on big brother’s more expressive scale – but, to this hack, a 10 is the equivalent of ringing the bar-room bell at the end of the night. Everyone should just give up and go home.

Thus far, nothing has persuaded me to reconsider this stance – that is until now. Because Thee Silver Mt Zion Memorial Orchestra & Tral-La-La Band’s [for the purpose of space saving, this mouthful of a moniker will be condensed to Silver Mt. Zion from here on in] 13 Blues For Thirteen Moons is, quite simply, one of the records of 2008, perhaps even the decade. Make no bones about it: this gargantuan beast of an album is the reason for those woofed-up, bass-bulging speakers sitting on your shelf. Christ, Efrim Menuck’s fifth full offering with Silver Mt. Zion may even be the reason for this and every other music site’s existence on the face of planet t’internet.

Excited yet? You really, really should be.

In keeping with the title’s theme, the record doesn’t actually begin until - surprise, surprise - track 13. Up to that point the airwaves are impeded by 12 untitled cuts consisting entirely of linear drone, ensuring baffled glances are flashed towards the CD player and those cowering neighbourhood mongrels are busy striking the record off their end of year hitlist. But this intro is mere scene setting, a build up to the enthralling, anger-driven pandemonium to come. And when it comes, by fuck does it come.

Opener ‘1,000,000 Died To Make This Sound’ begins with a harrowing vocal recital that sounds like it’s been whipped into an echoic frenzy from the bottom of a disused silo before spewing out a sludge of primal drums, savaging guitar and grating violins. Menuck’s off-kilter wails are extraordinary, shooting straight through this wild symphonic storm with untameable ferocity as he yelps “your band, your band is bland, your band is bland ambition” with pious intent. It's a statement that leaves no doubt; other acts are merely unseasoned, unpalatable aperitifs when compared against the fired up, char-grilled flavours of this Canadian banquet.

Production-wise there’s a feel of Liars’ Drum’s Not Dead to the blueprint of 13 Blues… but, whereas Andrew Angus’ mob of miscreants often descended into vicious swamps of uncoordinated feedback, the pairing of Howard Bilerman (former Arcade Fire sticksman) and Radwan Moumneh (the band’s live soundman) have engineered a more purposeful and coherent direction. By allowing the record to ascend as sharp slitting shots of instrumental chaos before retreating into barren atmospheric chasms, they’ve created a bubbling volcano of sound that leaves little clue as to when the next scorching eruption of molten post-rock will besiege eardrums.

And in this lies the most enthralling aspect of 13 Blues… - the anticipation, the not knowing. Previous LPs like Horses In The Sky or He Has Left Us Alone... were at times bleak, barren deserts in which rumbling storms of sound could be heard building long before erupting in the eardrums. But 13 Blues… is a flash flood, an album that saturates the senses with a surge of acerbic, sledge-hammering riffs and drenching orchestration, leaving minds dumfounded and completely uncoordinated in the belly of this titanic aural siege.

The title track is exactly how the apocalypse should sound: a 16-minute shock of chaotic drumming and screaming vocals that explodes with venomous guitar tussles before subsiding into pleading reverb that’s finally dismissed by a swathe of unrelenting instrumentation. Less rabid pace-wise but equally as terrifying, ‘Black Waters Blowed/Engine Broke’ builds slowly into a peak of sniggering strings and discordant percussion until eventually relenting as an ale-swigging tankard that ends with Menuck howling, “We’re building trainwrecks in the setting sun”. He sounds like a rabid-eyed wolf pining to the moon.

Then, suddenly, all is calm. Album-closing opus ‘Blindblinblind leads you serenely to the afterlife, glowing with twinkling cello-plucks and enchanting, dew-soaked harmonies. Displaying all the hallmarks of a desolate punk masterpiece, the track finds Menuck’s pleading crows tinged with the teary eyed edge of Joe Strummer at his most reflective. Utterly magnificent to the point of astonishment, it’s an enveloping finale to an album that stretches beyond emotional boundaries and embeds itself within walls of the heart.

So here’s the stickler: 13 Blues… scores 10 in almost every sense, but to award such an accolade would imply this is a record never to be bettered. And, with a group of musicians as precociously talented as Efrim Menuck and his divine orchestra, it would take a brave man to make such a bold statement.

Rating: 9/10

First published here

LIVE REVIEW: Supergrass, 14 Mar, Liquid Rooms

Ah Britpop... how we rejoiced in its Loaded-reading, binge-drinking, coke-snorting, tracksuit-wearing, mockney knees-up aping, Kensit-fucking culturalism. And, while we're reminiscing, let’s not fail to mention the bands who flew the flag of Blighty so proudly around the globe for her majesty. Who could possibly forget the ear-pleasing pleasures of Echobelly, Sleeper, Menswear, Northern Uproar, Cast and Kula Shaker? With such a smattering of razor-sharp, life-affirming acts on offer it's nae wonder the Union Jack-draped genre was the apple of New Labour’s twinkling eye.

In hindsight, it was all a bit gash wasn’t it? But the era did have a few redeeming qualities, a number of joyous nuggets with which memory cells could erase the cack that accompanied them in order to accentuate only the positives. And there were none more celebrated than spunk-bubbling rapscallions Supergrass – a band whose debut I Should Coco was so awash with contagious post-pubescent pop it single-handedly spawned a generation of bum-fluffed sideboard bearers who were young, free and ever-so sparkly of tooth.

Fast forward 13 years and the ‘Grass are five albums down with another on the way, and as the Liquid Rooms fills to the brim there’s the distinct sense of feel-good revivalism in the air tonight. Judging by the booze-swollen bellies, much of the crowd have seen it, done it and bought the Knebworth T-shirts but, refreshingly, the wide-eyed gleam of adolescence still lurks down front, reminding those with sceptical minds that Gaz, Danny and Mick (the original line-up, joined here by Gaz’s two siblings Charly and Rob) still represent a draw for today’s scampish hipsters.

Hurling into the sleazy Zeppelin-esque sludge-fest of recent single ‘Diamond Hoo Ha Man’, the quintet kick off with an intent that suggests the cheeky-chappy charm of old is long gone, replaced by adulthood's stern focus - and it’s undoubtedly to their detriment. Despite the intensity of it’s motorway surging riffage, the track feels like a foray into the mill-running pastures of 'has been'-ism and with the proceeding run of well-executed - but ultimately dreary – blues-soaked newbies biting the dust without a trace of enjoyment on either side of the stage it seems the end could soon be nigh for the Oxford born ensemble.

But over the years Supergrass have continually proven to be stellar storm-weatherers and with the thinner-thatched but still cherubically cheeked Gaz Coombes at the helm there’s always gonna be the chance of a defeat-sparing renaissance. And once free-spirited, organ-sliding jaunt ‘Brecon Beacons’ sprints from the blocks those lovable, tail-wagging pups of the ‘90s suddenly re-emerge. The tombstone frowns and static stances are immediately replaced with monkey-toothed grins and a sprightly skip that punctures through the wriggling floor-cutting of ‘Moving’ and ‘Sun Hits The Sky’ before honking a big fuck me we’re still good horn with the inanely infectious set finale ‘Pumping On Your Stereo’.

Whipped into a frenzy by each break-neck dash of good-time indie-poppery, a rejuvenated crowd holler for their idols’ stage-side return and – worryingly – the last-gasp huzzah of ‘Alright’. Thankfully, the band think better of it and although two-thirds of the encore incites little more than a sea of tolerant head-nodding the closing candy-hearted rumpus ‘Caught By The Fuzz’ provides one last demonstration of just how intoxicating a live act Supergrass can be.

Britpop’s sun may have set long ago but there were times tonight where a wee part of you wished it never had.

Rating: 6/10

First published here

ALBUM REVIEW: Lost Harbour - Dead Fires & The Lonely Spark

You’ve got to hand it to Last Harbour, they’re not ones to be shoved around by the oppressive weight of modernity. Previous efforts from the Manchester-based ensemble have been shrouded in a dark mist of nocturnal austerity that bears no resemblance to the effects-impaired production of today’s musical landscape. And in the release of third long-player Dead Fires & The Lonely Spark, the septet’s maudlin orchestration and eerie soul-searching shows little sign of succumbing to the shackles of progress.

Recorded in analogue under the watchful gaze of one-time Spacemen 3 collaborator Richard Formby, this brooding, air-tight affair is as mournful as the opaque title suggests and just as difficult to revel in. The antiquated assembly should underscore the band’s gloomy atmospherics but when excavating this nine-track chamber of retrospection it becomes increasingly apparent that, for all the romanticised idealism, the execution is too often stunted and underwhelming; like the snarl of a rabid, blood-hungry hound skewed into a whimper by the duteous restraints of both muzzle and leash.

The band's coagulation of earthy instrumentation and brusque gothic lyricism bridges the gap between Nick Cave’s biblically driven parables and the more inertia-fraught lounging of The Tindersticks - however the results rarely scale beyond the treetops of either’s towering peaks. Frontman Kevin Craig’s baritonal pleas equip ‘No-One Ever Said’ and ‘Broken Nails’ with a menacing sense of engagement, etched in betrayal and distrust, yet rather than dramatising his sullen strains with a discordant melodic assault the linear wreaths of string, strum and percussion fail to entwine as one, appearing disjointed and aimless in direction.

But once Dead Fires & The Lonely Spark unlocks from such shackles, it unearths a bewitching panorama of dawn-rising rhythms drenched in melancholy. Tracks like ‘The Revenger’s Waltz’ and ‘Science Song’ are gargantuan, bombastic throbs that leave temples reeling in a gruesome storm of vehement symbol crashes, while ‘The Accident’'s intrepid juxtaposition of swooping violins and weeping keys escalates as an exhilarating crescendo in which Craig recites his lung-busting proclamations with the velocity of a devout street-preacher.

When strewn across ‘Out Back’’s playful banjo plucks, Gina Murphy’s sultry purr provides a welcome interlude to the record’s macabre complexion, but not even her wilful mew can resuscitate ‘The Further Field’’s stone-dead dreariness. A sombrely lit psalm that stagnates in a pool of slumping keys and muffled drumming, it epitomises a record bristling with promise but lacking the consistency to truly invigorate. They may not respond well to the forceful advances of progress but unless the world starts to regress you get the impression Last Harbour will finally have to embrace the modern age.

Rating: 6/10

Out now on Little Red Rabbit

Record Review: The King Blues - Under The Fog

Back in 1970 when Edwin Starr bellowed out ‘War (What Is It Good For?)’ it’s unlikely to have rendered the response: “protest songs”. But now, in the midst of 2008, that’s exactly what we’ve got. From Bobby Gillespie to Chris Martin, George Michael to Ian Brown, it seems modern day rock ‘n’ rollers can’t be considered true, iconic figureheads unless at least one ditty denouncing governmental spawned combat is found lurking within a back catalogue that contains tracks that pine over loves lost or celebrate the virtues of a cheeky gram on an inebriated night out.

So, is this politicised soap-box standing on the part of our lovable pop-rogues and roguettes a good thing? Who can really say? There are those who believe it’s the duty of today’s entertainers to enlighten the yoof on societal misgivings, but there’s an argument to suggest pop and politics should never, ever mix. (Remember this abominable attempt by Pink?) But in today’s marketing orientated climes, where a rub of green on an industry fat-cat’s sweaty palms goes a long, long way, there’s little doubting the smattering of publicity derived from straddling the pedestal of war doesn’t harm an artist's chances of success.

Of course it’s easy to be cynical and over the decades numerous acts have swathed the sword of melody-riddled activism without having to answer to claims of co-option or band-wagon jumping. And ready to join this cluster of politicised tune-smugglers are Hackney-born reggae punks The King Blues with the release of their debut long-player Under The Fog – a record that pleads for its melodic substance to be heard just as intensely as it lobbyist protestations.

Pious supporters of both the anti-capitalism and anti-racism movements, the trio’s intentions are immediately apparent, with snippets of pre-Iraq War news broadcasts pasted across the copious bass and flustered strums of the album's introductory offering. From here, Under The Fog emerges as a furious, rootsy ska-punk celebration that tips its hat to Billy Bragg’s grass-roots cultural diatribes whilst paying heed to The Clash’s muted moment’s of inner-city reflection and Gogol Bordello’s frantic hurry of instrumental uprising.

Unsurprisingly, rebellion is never far from the heart of every full-blooded cut, with the likes of 'Blood On My Hands' and 'We Ain’t Never Done' shuffling devotedly to an organic rhythm contrived by bristled percussion and folksy guitar while frontman Jonny Fox’s embittered crow promises “resistance” and impending “revolution" so urgently you begin to believe him – well, almost. See, there’s a distinct whiff of the Jamie Ts to the record’s reggae-bridling spirit; y’know the kind of Rastaman masquerading that made Panic Prevention so impossible to take seriously. And that’s the underlying issue with Under The Fog, tracks like the dub-wielding ‘Come Fi Di Youth’ and equally groove-laden ‘The Sound Of Revolt want, nay demand, completely unsalted consumption. Yet, it's a bitch of a task to pull off.

For all their change-pushing convictions, The King Blues lack the impact to affect an audience with the ease their idols once could. Whereas Strummer or Bragg had the gusto to impale their idealism upon a culture salivating for change, Fox is preaching to a nation with an attention span barely capable of enduring a five minute news bulletin without reaching for the remote control. So when he ironically bemoans lost weapons of mass destruction (‘Duck And Cover’) or ridicules power hungry executives (’Chimp In A 3 Piece Suit’) his impact is minimal; merely an un-insisting, un-provocative vocal that accompanies a set of virulent, contagious melodies.

And that’s a real shame, because beneath the faux-reggae surface of Under The Fog lies a record of intelligence and craft that shits all over the nonplussed atrocities belted out by far less culturally conscious luminaries. The luscious gleam of last single ‘Mr Music Man’ and ‘Taking Over’’s misty-eyed stroll are so blushed with sunshine jangling they could inject the feel-good frolicking of summer into even the most granite of hearts. The politics are, of course, still heavily embedded within the lyrical content of each but when ‘Getting Out Of Here’ chaperones you to the album’s exit it bestows such a simplistic sense of self-worth and pride upon your listening lugs it matters not where your leanings lie - it's just good, spirit-lifting music that has the power to bind the divided with it’s ebullient charm.

War may be good for absolutely nothing but it’s relieving to know it can still spur acts as passionate and willing as The King Blues.

Rating: 7/10
Out Now on Island
First published here

Live Review: The Presets, Damn Shames, Cab Vol, 13 Mar

With an end-of-gig injury list that catalogues freshly battered temples, pummelled ear-drums and frazzled nerve-ends, DiS slowly trundles up the stairwell of Cabaret Voltaire a quivering, defeated wreck. This was the kind of night where the resistance of snazzy lug-plugs would prove futile, where not even a barrel of booze could numb the din emitting from the rattling bass-bin of a venue. The only escape from this furious blizzard of sound was to dance. Like a motherfucker.

But it was never meant to be this way. Three hours earlier, this bleary-eyed scribe begrudgingly broke free from the TV to catch Aussie electro-mongrels The Presets on another rancid, rain-pishing night in Auld Reekie. In all honesty this wasn't my first choice, I was quite content to witness a certain Russian oligarch's play-thing being humped by the pass and move might of Barnsley, but photographers can be persuasive blighters and, well, sometimes you have to compromise in this word writing lark.

The initial signs were far from promising. Having dislodged myself from the bar and found my way to the pit's sparse confines, local miscreants Damn Shames ambled onstage armed with their gusty brand of glitch, rattle ‘n’ roll. A splurge of ankle-twisting guitars and incoherent vocals, the hoodie-clad trio are the sound of gutter-lurking post-punk preened and spruced into a tightly bound package that wails “pick me” in the direction of whichever gak-snorting talent spotter will listen.

There’s nothing particularly irksome about their rat-a-tat air-cutting - in-fact ‘Dancing In The Isles’’ cranky angled machine-gunnery borders on the exhilarating - yet as one jerking riff whip-cracks its way into another it’s hard to shake the notion that Damn Shames are nowt more than watered-down Foals plagiarists. That’s not to say they’re the Math Rock/Puzzle Pop/whatever the fuck you call it equivalent of The Paddingtons or, god forbid, The Others but until they convert their banal consistency into an epileptic shock of something half-way interesting they’re unlikely to emerge from the coat-tails of their more lavishly gifted contemporaries.

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Luckily, headliners The Presets are an altogether more engaging proposition and don’t tonight’s turbo-charged crowd know it. The sprawl of wiggling arse-cracks that greets Julian Hamilton and Kim Moyes’s arrival makes a raspberry blowing mockery of the preconceived (and often correct) notion that The Capital’s gig-goers are a disinterested bunch of arm-crossing, head-nodding laggards. And in eight years of dwelling within the city’s cobbled pathways and Medieval tenements it's difficult to remember a gig as boisterously received as this.

Of course, much of this jubilancy revolves around the intoxicating rampage of sleaze-driven electronica exuding from stage (although, judging by the queue to the gents, less virginal vices may have been at work) and as every juddering beat pounds relentlessly from a fit-to-burst PA the unruly euphoria escalates notch by notch, spiralling into a riotous, discordant apex during the cranium-crunching stomp ‘Are You The One’.

On record the duo are a sporadic, and often drudging, assortment of bleeps and beats that lacks the consistency of kindred – more globally revered - spirits such as Justice and LCD Soundsystem but live, well, they’re relentless, snarling, sexy, fuckable. The pulsating drums and grinding, stuttered synths of ‘My People’ inject their way through the blood stream like a python eager to infiltrate inhibitions with a disarming aural venom, leaving the lascivious throb of ‘Down Down Down’ free to ravage the limp carcasses left behind. Even the newer, unknown, numbers have the crowd enraptured, with sharp bursts of electronica scatter-shot across layers of robotic, endorphin releasing melodies all terrifyingly met by Hamilton’s vocoderised snarl.

A wild-eyed flail of hyperactivity, the frontman is the undoubted focal point – so uncontrollably rampant is his skeleton it’s as if he’s been possessed by the barbaric aural concoctions writhing from above - but it’s the infinitely shier Moyes’ who steals the limelight during the punked-up freak-out of closer ‘I Go Hard, I Go Home’. Oscillating through the venue like a seething, enraged tornado, his savage skin-pummelling cocoons every shape-shifting limb within an unavoidable vortex of pounding, demonoid techno that brings this sonic siege to a deafening finale.

Having barely managed to reach the summit of the seemingly endless staircase that leads to the exit, this exhausted DiSser makes his way home via the piss-reeking safe-haven of the Number 31. Head-a-thumping and ears-a-ringing, something tells me the ramifications of tonight’s staggering set will be long-lived in the haggard bones of its survivors.

Damn Shames: 5/10

The Presets: 9/10

Photos: Loraine Ross

Oringinally Published here