Among the classic disadvantages and advantages of living in a complicated city like London, a definite positive is the chapter on concerts. Every day, every evening, there are concerts in London, because in fact everyone passes through London. Interested in an artist who perhaps recently released an album? Go online and discover that the following Thursday they're playing twenty minutes by tube from where you live. That's how it works. So doing my research, I learned that in the mere month of October, none other than Death in June, Fire + Ice, Hypnopazuzu (the new project of David Tibet, Current 93) and Blood Axis would be taking the stages of this city: in practice almost all the top exponents of apocalyptic folk (for the Sol Invictus we'll have to wait for the next round), people I've already seen live, and in some cases more than once. But what better occasion to take flight like a true "Lucifer over London" and take stock of the situation in the year of grace 2016, almost thirty years since the genre's inception?
"The Last Europa Kiss Tour" was announced as the last by Death in June, and even if it's not true (it's not the first time Pearce threatens to retire from concert activity), at least it's the post-Brexit tour, an interesting detail if you consider the central role the image of Europe has played in the poetic of Our Man. And indeed, as a backdrop on stage, we find the classic Totenkopt banner with a halo of little stars calling to mind the EU flag: it's the evening of Saturday, October 8 and we're at the Underworld, an underground venue specializing in metal or other outsider genres. It's not big, but not small either (cozy, I would dare say), and in the end, it would prove to be the ideal environment for a gathering of this type. The crowd is predominantly dark, with fringes stretched on the fetish side and some inevitable human cases: the atmosphere is nevertheless reassuring, because you have the impression that under these leather clothes lies the postal worker and the middle school teacher ready Monday morning to diligently do their job.
The evening opens with none other than Fire + Ice by the veteran Ian Read, who appears on stage in a coat and really seems like my grandfather, poor soul. On his left, a guitarist who must be sixteen and on his right a muscled guy handling a camouflage-patterned accordion. In the brief set (forty-five minutes maximum) the major classics of the project are condensed (but "Michael," birthed during the Sol Invictus days, nor "Benediction/Malediction," a pearl in "Swastikas for Noddis" of C93, songs that are live moments of great suggestion, were played): everything will proceed straight to the end without particular emphasis, with the young guitarist arpeggiating with nerd-like precision and the beefy man alternating between the accordion and trotting percussion. Playing at home, Read appears more talkative than usual, slurs with his farneticating voice between songs, indulges in frequent exchanges of banter with the audience, but his irony is like that of a far-right grandfather, which makes you laugh up to a point. But beware, plot twist, Douglas Pearce is announced, called in to lend a hand for two pieces he wrote for Fire + Ice ("Take My Hand" and "Fractured Again"). Without a mask, with a fisherman's vest, eyeglasses (complete with a cord to better secure them around his neck), gut, and mustache, defiladed and half-hidden behind Ian Read, he seems the last of the last. It's like: some people don't realize the importance their figure can have for those coming to see them. Okay, Pearce the irreverent, Pearce the honorable defeated, Pearce the ultimate anti-hero, but a bit of healthy self-celebration wouldn't have hurt; he could have afforded it.
It's thus the turn of Death in June. The same muscle-bound guy who had played the accordion now reappears in military attire and with a carnival mask that seems bought for two pounds at Sainsbury's: he sits at the keyboards, and from the skill with which he navigates between the keys, I realize that it's none other than Miro Snejdr, the young talent who had coated the tracks of "The Peaceful Snow" with piano. He's alone and the introduction is a brief instrumental medley of old and new Death in June tracks. Smoke, thunder, menacing noises in the background, and we're all eagerly awaiting the same thing: Pearce's entrance, who in camouflage and mask presents himself howling, creating an effect to say the least surreal. The first part of the concert is captivating, and - I have to admit - the not so exciting tracks of "The Peaceful Snow" work very well live, with Snejdr going at it and Pearce's voice strong and clear. This is followed by the inevitable percussive interlude, where Snejdr moves to the bass drum and Pearce unveils his more declamatory side, in the usual minimalist reinterpretation of tracks from the more distant past. Reaching the peak with the classic "Till the Living Flesh is Burned" the two also excellently conclude this phase and one can be satisfied, but it's also true that we're at the appetizer, waiting for the moment when Our Man will be alone on stage with the guitar in hand.
But what was thought to be the core of the concert will fly by in an instant, embodied by about twenty pieces performed hastily and without particular sentiment. There's nothing to criticize about the setlist in truth, given the impressive series of classics that will follow one after the other without interruption. And even the space given to tracks of the last decade doesn't seem wasted, as paradoxically those are the dimension in which Pearce seems to be more at ease, perhaps because he's less bored reproducing them. As for the old ones, Our Man will allow himself some liberties bordering on sacrilege. And so "To Drown a Rose" will be interrupted halfway because it's too hot on stage; the chorus of "Behind the Rose (Fields of Rape)" will be changed on the fly with ironic references to Brexit; the keyboard riff that serves as the introduction to the legendary "Rose Clouds of Holocaust" will be done with voice. In short, you can't certainly criticize Pearce for taking himself too seriously, but his way of doing is all too disrespectful to the great music he's authored, as if unaware of his status as a guru in an entire genre.
What I would have expected (and I'm not asking for the moon, as it was a solution always adopted in Death in June's tours): at least getting a hand from a percussionist to reinforce tracks that reduced to the bone and played hastily sound too similar to each other. Probably, for his last tour, Pearce didn't want anyone to usurp the place that belonged to the historic "skin beater," also a long-time friend, John Murphy, who recently passed away (by the way: an unfailing dedication was addressed to him). And so everything runs at the speed of light with a Pearce somewhere between hilarious and listless, seeming more engaged in the interstitial chit-chats than in performing the songs themselves. In the end, the encore will be a short dirge for voice alone dedicated to London, where Our Man will reiterate his regret over Britain's withdrawal from the EU, marking the most sincere and touching moment of the evening.
Enjoy retirement, Douglas!
A whole different matter, and a whole different order of problems, for David Tibet, who performed on Saturday, October 22, at the Union Chapel, a majestic church, I'm not sure if deconsecrated because inside you couldn't drink alcohol. Tibet's touch, always careful to choose special venues for his live appearances, shows: you enter and are greeted by a magical environment, with soft blue lights and droning noise in the background, an "ascetic" atmosphere I would define as a "gong bath." Even the people seem straight out of a fairy tale world. Yes, the general address is always dark, but you feel more at home: people of a certain age, some freak, sophisticated but non-stereotypical looks, many long and fluffy beards, but most importantly less plastic and clothes bought on the internet. All sitting on the benches waiting for the priest.
Serving as the appetizer are the Stargazer's Assistant, a trio dedicated to a proposal halfway between ritual and kosmische music, frankly, a rather boring performance. More than anything I'm puzzled by the character in the center, the one among us undoubtedly with the longest beard, who between percussion, accordion, gong (indeed), and various gadgets (even an empty canister), with a solemn face and slow, ceremonious gestures, does a lot of work, yet leaving the impression that he isn't exactly cut out for music. Between yawns and after three long and soporific instrumental suites, we come to the end of the set, which at least had the merit of not being annoying.
Those embodying Hypnopazuzu this evening make their entrance, lastly Tibet, who in his accustomed way seems like a lunatic: slightly chubbier, clean-shaven face, hat and clochard suit, clumsy gestures to pull out his trusty notebook from his cloth bag that he will place on the usual lectern. But it's not as if his companions are any better-looking, starting from the other "celebrity" present on stage, also co-titleholder of the Hypnopazuzu project (an operation renewing a collaboration dating back over thirty years with the seminal "Nature Unveiled"): Martin "Youth" Glover, already bassist and founder of Killing Joke and subsequently a renowned producer, with his characteristic visor and tufts of hair sticking out haphazardly, seems like a fool prowling the stages of London (I've seen him with the Orb a few months ago in Brixton, without really contributing much to the performance of the Brits): More stage presence than anything else, Glover, as a musician, his time has passed in my opinion, and tonight at the Union Chapel, always distracted and talkative (at one point he resorted to giving advice to the drummer on how to play the instrument to enhance specific passages), he was a constant visual disturbance, an alien element to the dramatic and visionary poetic of those standing next to him. Supporting the two, there are visibly very young rookies (respectively drummer, guitarist, and second keyboardist, some with a rocker look, others with a nerd one). Completing the uninspiring picture is an unappealing violinist (so engrossed in the music that for the entire concert he will indulge in facial expressions somewhere between pathetic and shocking, so embarrassing that several times I had to make an effort not to look at him) and a nerd juggling between keyboards and laptop, who sonically held up the whole gig, at times gesturing as if conducting an orchestra. In short, the usual carriage of scatterbrained characters Tibet tends to bring along, so much so that it's almost suspected his real job is as a social worker.
Moving on to the music: Our Men will perform the entirety of the album "Create Christ, Sailor Boy", without surprises or displays of generosity since the set will last just over an hour. However, there is another problem. It's not the first time I've seen Tibet live, and the feeling remains the same: not disappointment, but the impression that Our Man doesn't know how to recreate the emotions he generally dispenses on record. And this not due to technical deficiencies (after all, he's out of tune even on records), but for something I don't understand that weighs him down and prevents him from taking off as one would expect. Yet the background made of robust orchestrations and the cosmic-psychedelic quirks, the gothic interior of the church, the blue lights, all of this should be the ideal aquarium for a poet who bases everything on words like him and with the qualities of the possessed preacher he is, yet again, something isn't right. Some "thrills" were there here and there, but after a bit the approach of the crescendo started to bore me, because raising the voice and prolonging syllables becomes repetitive for a non-singer like Tibet, especially if this rising and falling stretches across a predictable pattern that saw the dogged alternation between an intimate-and-evocative track and an urgent-and-psychedelic track. Flailing around, feigning epileptic fits isn't enough to improve a situation where each peculiar character on stage moves and gestures as they please, and the "mystical dimension," overall, is never penetrated.
And so, aside from the first track (because it's always thrilling to hear Tibet's first vocalizations), the peak occurs practically at the end, in the final crescendo where Our Man obsessively repeated the album's title (but is there perhaps anything he doesn't repeat obsessively?). Thus, there's no time to get excited before everything ends. Tibet puts his notes back in the cloth bag, a pro forma farewell to the audience, a pro forma hug to Youth, and disappears backstage, followed by the other musicians. The resumed background music crushes any hope of an encore: no encores, after all. Tibet isn't a conventional artist, but that's why we expect more from him. We expect magic, and in this, one could say that the "Current" has been intermittent. But more than anything, we reproach him for continuing to surround himself with new musicians, from diverse backgrounds, origins, and ages, forced each time to improvise, his live music will never have that cohesion, and hence that strength, that should rather double, being the contact between him and the audience without further mediation. I maybe harbor a suspicion that Tibet doesn't have all these shamanic capabilities (because charisma doesn't fade with age - and Peter Hammill proves it again at the venerable age of sixty-seven!). And the suspicion that today, despite the greater "popularity" compared to the past, he is a tired and essentially energy-drained artist.
I don't get discouraged, and the very next day, Sunday October 23, I show up at Our Black Heart to visit Blood Axis. It's a minuscule venue (the smallest I've ever seen in my life), located upstairs in a not bad pub that plays very vibrant rock music (and then the bartender in the Dissection t-shirt appeals to us). As soon as I enter the venue, I realize that even if I'm in the farthest position from the stage, that is at the edge of the bar, I would still be closer to the stage than I was at many other concerts I've attended. So I position myself in the first row because I want to exaggerate, we'll be only thirty. The population is still dark, but the number of human cases has exponentially grown, while the remaining portion is divided between far-right characters and people who from their piercings, tattoos, and haircut, I understand they aren't dark only on weekends (and it's not assured the three categories do not see sad intersections). Then there's myself and Ian Read (yes, the one from Fire + Ice), who is in a corner happily chatting with Michael Moynihan, patron of the Axis (London magic!). The people have strange dimensions, either smaller or larger, and I feel slightly out of place.
Naevus start things off (whom I had already seen), but Lloyd James trades his "acoustic solitude" for a real band that retrieves for his on stage music those rock and post-punk components his records possess. Not bad, but we aren't here for him.
Given the limited space, tonight we will have Blood Axis in a restricted version, without the session musicians who have sometimes accompanied them to reinforce their sound's power. I am so close to the stage that I can see the setlist at Moynihan's feet: the program is good and all of Our slim discography will be decently represented, with a nod to the folk repertoire, long adopted as a privileged form of artistic expression. Towards the end, I see that the repertoire will revisit "Seeker" by Fire + Ice, and so I think (naively): "Since Ian Read is in the audience, surely they will play it with him." But no, Ian Read will not make his appearance, and it's a shame, because it would have been a touch of salt to an otherwise bland performance.
The problem in fact is just this: apocalyptic folk has strong conceptual aspects, but musically it is a poor, simple, and minimalistic genre, that doesn't require scenic effects or high-end musicians. Theoretically, all you need is a guy with an acoustic guitar in hand. For this reason, it must try to give the maximum in terms of expressiveness and conviction. After all, it's about seasoned people who've been around for years and should know certain tricks. The three seem instead not to care, it's unclear whether due to indifference or comprehension limits. Looking at them closely, perhaps the latter: Annabel Lee looks like a middle-school music teacher dolled up for a holiday (for heaven's sake, nice and a dispenser of smiles), while Robert Ferbrache, sluggish, slumped on a chair, aquiline nose and blank eyes, seems like he doesn't even belong there. Moynihan, regarding stage presence, still holds his own, but it can't be easy for him to move with pathos in a one-square-meter stage space and sing with spectators' heads half a meter away from his nose, so he's forced to declaim his verses staring at an unspecified point in the void above. The acoustics are as befitting a small venue, the volume quite low, the audience quite sleepy: I frankly feel supported by the claim that in high school times, during various occupations, I witnessed concerts more intense and better set. Notably, there's strong audience participation during "Wir Rufen deine Wolfe", during which people will clap hands and bounce as if at the Oktober Fest: an amusing moment, but also a bit pathetic, as if even within the hearts of all these "baddies" pumped a vital energy geared towards singing and dancing.
Apart from this occasion, everything proceeds without particular fanfare, the songs are performed with honesty but without momentum, not even the more historic pieces tied to post-punk dynamics: in cases like "Eternal Soul", "Reign I Forever", and "Storm of Steel" electric guitars are wielded and pre-recorded tracks are used, however leading to an unpleasant karaoke effect. But what especially infuriates me is that at the penultimate track (in the meantime I kept an eye on the setlist), I notice Moynihan says something to his colleagues: "Maybe - I think again, naively - an off-program is looming, Our Men will spring a surprise on us!" Instead, skipping over the planned "The Hangman and the Papist", the three decide to cut the set and proceed immediately with the concluding "Walked in Line". I understand that playing in front of thirty idiots isn't the height of gratification after almost thirty years of career, but it's also the path the three have chosen by deciding to be Blood Axis! As a consolation, "Eternal Soul" is performed again, a choice I frankly don't understand, adding further perplexities towards an exhibit surely not memorable.
Conclusions: the discussion was on artists who have chosen an elitist path that distanced them from any possible artistic and commercial compromises. This however does not justify such a dilettantish and approximate management of their live appearances, where they should be, from a height of many years of experience, fully master of their craft, no matter how dirty this craft may be: where lacking great means, greater devotion should take over, for one's art and audience. This energy, let's call it also "magic," was scarcely felt. If I can draw a risky parallel, I feel compelled to mention the entity (also undoubtedly apocalyptic) Wovenhand, which many liken to the neo-folk world (though having nothing to do with it), whom I've had the fortune to see live also this (apocalyptic) October: entirely different music, folks, there indeed the "flow", let's also call it "Current", was felt. David Eugene Edwards isn't just an excellent musician, but he possesses scenic presence and shamanic qualities of rare intensity that captivated everyone's attention on his every single word, his every single act, of course supported by a badass band. Certainly (but this isn't a fault) he leaned on craftsmanship, as age advances for him as well. Sometimes little is enough to excite people willing to get excited, and all fans of the bands we talked about today are.
Conscious of this newfound truth, I sneakily leave the condominium of apocalyptic folk (do you believe it?), staying in touch only with the Rome, who by the way don't even play apocalyptic folk anymore...
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