Dead Meadow - The Drop, London, 14 April 2011

The Drop won’t allow you to take drinks from the main bar downstairs. I have to crash a pint of Harvey’s Sussex just to get to see the bands. The bar in the basement only serves Red Stripe.

I remain teetotal for the rest of the night. But apart from the abysmal bar arrangements The Drop is the perfect venue to see Dead Meadow. It’s a small shoebox of a basement and everyone’s crammed in.

Apparently Dead Meadow are playing with their original drummer on this tour and only playing material from their first two LPs. It kind of makes sense as I’m only familiar with their albums from Shivering King... onwards.

But the restriction is actually a blessing as their earlier records are definitely my favourites. Channelling more strongly that vibe of Sabbath obsessed Hells Angels who’ve just pulled off the highway to set up and blast out their cosmic rock to the stars.

Their set is unhurried, kick-backed and relaxed riffage where there’s always time for a lengthily warped blues solo. The low end riffing, hypnotises, inducing eyes shut, head-nodding reveries. Time seems to stand still whilst their playing. Partly it’s hypnotising low, repeating riffs, but also it’s the fact that Dead Meadow are fine exponents of a now ancient rock sub-genre. They are worthy of their forefathers, and will no doubt begat an inheritance which others will duly honour.

Preferred drink: Sussex Best Bitter

Master Musicians of Bukkake | Voice of the Seven Thunders | Barn Owl - Corsica Studios, London, 25 October 2010

There was an unknown name to me on the bill. I’d not heard of Barn Owl before. A quick internet search took me to the website of some twee indie twiddlers. Who in the name of Hades, I wondered, booked this lot?

The answer lay in poor search engine skills. Not all my fault as there are six acts called Barn Owl on Myspace. Fortunately, somebody had booked the psychedelic drone two-piece. The two guitarists blast out cathedral sized drones. They explore different textures within their lengthy pieces. Sunn O))))) style heavy drones but also more psychedelic widdling and slow-motion Morricone style guitar picking.

Tonight was my first experience of Voice of the Seven Thunders. I’d been a fan of Voice of the Seven Woods from which this band morphed. But for some reason I’d never bothered to investigate them. It’s easy to hear the similarities. The psych-blues meanderings and the acid-fried tinged-rock are direct descendents. A couple of tracks lean a little too close leaden Clapton-esque blues, but it’s when guitar lines start questing they really engage.

The venue fills with smoke. Bells ring and the Master Musicians of Bukkake file towards the stage through the audience. They are dressed as Bedouins. Black cowls wrapped around their bodies. Their faces shrouded in blue kufiuya, their eyes hidden by sunglasses. I can smell incense.

A low drone starts up. The singer who is wearing an Inca like face mask throat yodels as he weaves intricate patterns in the air with his hands. Lasers cut through the smoke refracting off mirror balls on the ceiling and illuminated the smokes evolving patterns. Drone, electronics, psychedelic and Eastern influences are fused and cauterised. This is rock as occult ritual.

The guitarists switch to sitar and the violin adding Eastern flavours which are enhanced when they are joined by Khyam Allami who adds oud. He starts slowly repeating simple patterns over the low, metallic, rumbling of huge gong. The oud lines become more complex and duels with the violin. Then everyone falls in as the rhythms become heavier and a heady, murky, and epic. They close with a quieter, more meditative number before the Master Musicians then file in procession from the stage.

Preferred drink: Water

Bong | Toe Hammer | Sunday Mourning - Buffalo Bar, London, 13 October 2010

Serendipity. I am working late in the office. There are only a few people still here. I decide to listen to some music. A random urge takes me to Bong's Myspace page. As I listen to a couple of songs I notice their upcoming gig dates. They're playing tonight. About 20 minutes away. Work can wait.

I like a weak pun so I'm feeling well disposed towards Sunday Mourning before they even start playing. They're a depressive doom duo and as cheery as they sound. The guitarist is playing an acoustic guitar, but run through some effects pedals to produce a suitably Stygian black sound. The drummer beats a simple tattoo. Low guttural death moans rise and fall out of the mix. The acoustic guitar lends a different tone to their downtuned sound. I close my eyes and focus.

At first I'm underwhelmed by Toe Hammer. They seem to be proficient, uninspired, punk-tinged blues. Their drummer sweats in some unusual places. In two distinct spots I guess where his nipples are, and on the tops of his shoulders. However, as their set wears on they begin to thaw me. ZZ Top may have nailed this genre down 30 years ago, but Toe Hammer have got something about them.

And now I await the narcoleptic majesty of Bong. The congregation are hushed in reverent worship of the drone lords. There's no sitar player tonight, so this set is based on tar thick black guitar sounds. Solid obsidian masses of lava paced riff-age. The sound is like someone has plugged a ley line into an amplifier and the vocals are like the incantations of ancient Druids.

Thick white smoke begins to belch from the guitarists amp. It has expired in the face of the relentless drone. He abandons his guitar and walks off. The rest of Bong drone on to the end of the song and then follow.

Preferred drink: San Miguel

Bong

There comes a time when a man just needs to listen to heavy riffs played at heavy volumes. Those are the moments I reach for the Bong.

Bong specialise in acrid drone riffage, as if channelling ancient unknown energy sources. However, what transmogrifies their sound is the use of the sitar, which can both drone into cosmic infinity, but also cut through the sulphuric sludge of their down tuned monotony.

Bong’s seismic, slabs of stoner rock lava have been steadily rolling recordings down the side of the volcano since 2006. They first came to my attention last year when I happened by chance to see a mind dementing live performance.

The experience was enough to teach me that these were great druids and that I should be their acolyte. I hastened to the altar of the merch table and purchased Bethmoora and their self-titled LP, two particularly sulphurous emissions which clogged my ears like solidifying lava.

Since then I have devoted myself to their lore, and also that of the myriad of sects to which these Druids belong. Students wishing to become disciples should hasten to Lobster Priest, Master Slave, Basillica, and Obey.

Preferred drink: Fuller's 1845.

Download - Bong: Wizards of Krull

Bong: Black Bong of the Wizards

Part Chimp | Sloath | Gum Takes Tooth - The Luminaire, London, 29 July 2010

Gum Takes Tooth play to the small crowd who’ve arrived early enough to see their set. Their identities are obscured by plastic sheeting and a piece of fabric which sparkles dully in the dim light. They play drums and a table full of gadgets. These instruments play as if in a headlock, wrestling viciously with each other. The effect is a bit like digital grindcore. Or if you strapped a Commodore Amiga to John Bonham’s back. At it’s best the electronics sound evil and squelchy and the drum pummel adds a relentless forward motion. When they finish their set no one has emerged victorious.

The venue has filled up by the time Sloath take the stage. Low-end, down-tuned blues riffs. Some form of transcendence is sought in the repetition of those riffs. However, I find myself becoming bored. It all sounds so familiar. But there’s something which stops me dismissing them outright. Maybe this is not my night to fall in love with Sloath. I think there’s potential for a relationship. Perhaps we just need to see a bit more of each other.

I love Part Chimp. Nothing sums up the band more than their name. It encapsulates the un-evolved, Neanderthal, rock they play. I like a Don Cherry improvisation as much as the next jazz sophisticate, but sometimes you just need to listen to mean riffs played at deafening volumes. Part Chimp blast through their set with well practised precision. They never disappoint. Rusty corrugated iron riffs serrate your ears through the twin guitar attack. The drummer hammers his kit like a furious blacksmith. They close with a thunderous version of War Machine. They return to the stage for encore 30 Billion People. The audience nod their approval with synchronised head banging.