Gig Review: Infest 2013

I just checked, and it has been 3 years since I last attended Infest. That is moderately appalling, considering it is my favourite UK electronic festival. Still, I went this year and now you get to read all about it. You are truly blessed.

I headed down to Bradford in good spirits if not rude health, almost perishing of dehydration on a train that was running the heating in the middle of one of the warmest British summers on record. I realise to any overseas readers that seems like borderline Arctic conditions, but you must remember that my genetics have gifted me with the equivalent of several walrus-hide overcoats in terms of body hair. Ladies.

Currently Infest retains the same layout as on its return to the revised Bradford Union venue a few years past, and while it maintains the same issues – stairs leading down to the front rows of the audience, a somewhat rambling multi-room layout – at this point I am detached enough from my nostalgic love of the old layout that I am beyond grumbling. Additionally it seems somewhat gauche to do so, since every other aspect of the festival is managed superbly. Copious bar and (non-intrusive) security staff, excellent timekeeping and a joyous compère in the form of Mr Tails all lead to a warm atmosphere quite unlike any other festival I have been to.

The Friday was launched in style by Metal Tech, a self-confessed 'kissdustrial' act who take on a '90s industrial rock sound before slathering it sexually in glam stomp and silly. They came, they threw out glowsticks and party poppers and they conquered. There are some serious musical chops going on with the construction of tunes, though the beats backing them could do with a bit of sophisticating. But maybe they don't want to. Maybe they just want to put on makeup and masks and make bitter muso twats like me grin, just a little bit, despite ourselves. Metal Tech closed with a German language number called 'Hammstein' that, if my Deutsch is standing up from GCSE, contained the chorus line “My little dancing pig”. That's worth the price of entry alone.

Long-running UK act Inertia followed. I have seen these guys a few times over the years and each time they strike me as almost getting close to attaining their own identity beyond borrowed beats and synths. This is the best I've seen them, but I still can't in all honesty recommend them. These days they come across as a bronze medal-winning Mesh, which could be fine if you don't have anywhere else to go. But before they are inevitably claimed by their eponymous emotional gravity well, it'd be nice to hear what just being Inertia sounds like.

Dive

Next up was Dive, solo project of Dirk Ivens – and this blew me away. One man, contorting on stage to a minimalist old school industrial/EBM fusion with noise elements. That sounds like a total grab-bag, but in practice it slots together so perfectly. The performance being centred entirely around vocals – all music was 'on tape', as they'd say back in the day – lent it a slightly surreal performance art vibe as Ivens beat his chest and addressed the audience via microphone and loudhailer. Constant slow white strobe accompanied the claustrophobic beats, flickering independent of the rhythm and helping to build what was undoubtedly an intense but approachable performance. Excellent musical construction, exquisite delivery.

Friday's headliners were Pride & Fall, a band whose futurepop/darkwave crossover material has never particularly grabbed me. This night was no exception. They seem to be trying for a melancholy poetry with their material, but for me every single stanza rhymes with 'boring'. It comes across as overwrought and self-indulgent, which is perhaps a criticism-by-numbers for a band who arguably fit under the incredibly broad umbrella of goth. But they just leave me rolling my eyes, despite an obviously professional live presence and an enthusiastic reception. More power to you if you still have the teenage flights of fancy to appreciate this stuff.

Two things were hammered into place by the first day of this year's Infest – firstly, this may have been the best sound I have ever heard at a festival. Aided by a superb sound setup, most of the weekend's bands (with one exception, noted below) were crystal clear from the front of the stage to the back of the crowd. Kudos to the engineers. Get out there are work every other festival I attend, please. Secondly, the second real strength of this festival year on year (after atmosphere) is the variety. Other alternative electronic festivals haul a bit of pick and mix on stage, but typically there is still an overriding sense of whatever is fashionable that year. Not so Infest. If you don't dig a particular sound, there will undoubtedly be something very different along in a minute.

And just to illustrate this, Saturday began with Manchester's AAAK – As Able As Kane if you like your capital letters spread out a bit – who come across as an energetic, defiant blend of old-school industrial and grebo. It's always a thrill to hear live guitars and drums as festivals such as these, and this year we were spoiled for them. A political kick wrapped in proto-Madchester punk sneer, AAAK 'ably' prove they 'kane' hold their own in good company. Punnage, motherfuckers. This is what life has driven me to.

Wieloryb are this year's contingent from veteran art noise label Forms Of Hands, and they play a blinding set of techno-tinged noise soundscapes, leveraged by a dynamic and infectious songcraft that pushes through the somewhat willfully difficult barrier many of their peers lurk behind. The end result is a dynamic, infectious and danceable set that stood out as powerfully unique to ears that are too often bored by the 4/4 crunchy beats of live noise acts. A melodic underpinning was provided on many tracks by what hacks like me tend to summarise as 'Eastern' vocal samples, which is about as effective a description as one would get describing every singer west of the Prime Meridian as 'Western' vocals. Still, you know what I mean, don't you? Yeah, you do. We're all going to hell. Except for Wieloryb, who are awesome. A mixed-gender duo also highlight something that struck me as extremely positive from this year's festival – a much higher number of women on stage who aren't there simply to dance or look pretty in uniform. This is a good thing, and laughably overdue. It's not a historical problem with Infest specifically, but one with the scene – and hey, the music industry as a whole – that can only have passed you by if you are either utterly ignorant of these things or an MRA asshole. If you are an MRA asshole, stop reading and pollute some other site. We don't like your kind round these parts.

Chrysalide

Next up are French trio Chrysalide, who stride onstage blackened and raw to deliver a festival-topping set of early '90s industrial power tempered in a crucible of 21^st century sounds and howling screams. Many comparisons have been made to Skinny Puppy, and while that is entirely accurate it struck me when watching how much these guys also sound like a gnarly, pissed off version of ohGr's solo work as well. Making comparisons seems somehow to undermine what Chrysalide do, since the shrieking violence of their performance comes as a breath of fresh air even over a weekend with as many quality acts as this one. It's all sweat, contortion and closed-eye bellowing over a bedrock of beats and synths forced open wide with a bloody, rusted ribcage spreader. If you can stand another band comparison, they come across as Mindless Self-Indulgence only created for rabid adults instead of attention-deficit-afflicted toddlers. Vital. Get yourselves on the bandwagon before it builds up full speed.

Typically after a set that explosive, the following act would struggle to build up a head of steam. But for new wave veterans Click Click, it's a chance to infect the entire venue with their slithering, creepy melodies that sneak softly inside your skull and perform unspeakably horrible, but consensual, sexual acts with your psyche. Frontman Adrian Smith - a withered Lex Luthor in Lennon glasses whispering secret things to the rodents under your bed – occasionally brings out random instruments to play into the microphone before tossing them over his shoulder with disdain, while his brother Derek pounds drums with stone-faced glee at the back of the stage. It's powerful and disturbing and oddly majestic. It has inspired me to raid their back catalogue thoroughly, and I would be surprised if many others watching were not doing the same even now.

Click Click

Controversial opinion for pretty much everyone else at Infest 2013: I didn't enjoy Da Octopusss much. European hard dance with pseudo-dubstep bits performed by two guys in gimmicky Cthulhu masks, their recorded material struck me as interesting enough with a degree of horror creep to it that at least somewhat justified the Lovecraft angle. But live... well, with a sonic/visual experiment that will blow your tiny minds, let me attempt to replicate the set for you.

BASS BASS BASS BASS BASS 

BASS BASS BASS BASS BASS 

BASS BASS BASS BASS BASS 

BASS BASS BASS BASS BASS 

BASS BASS BASS BASS BASS 

BASS BASS BASS BASS BASS

BASS BASS BASS

Seriously, have a bit of non-telegraphed dynamism. Was your father betrayed and murdered by treble? Have you sworn revenge? Are you even now polishing a dagger in a run-down Eastern European hostel room, weeping as you anticipate the joy of plunging it directly into the stomach of the cymbal unwittingly waiting for your violent attentions in a backalley absinthe bar populated by human traffickers and government informants?

Probably not, is the answer.

But of course everyone except me and a few others are left ejaculating with joy on the dancefloor. It's my own fault. I can't just like things for being things. I need some kind of existential reasoning. 

Fuck it.

Saturday's headliners were Imperative Reaction, a band I am most enthusiastic about on record. They peddle a distinctive brand of driving electronica that comes across to my ears as almost identical to '90s American industrial rock acts – the likes of Gravity Kills and the criminally forgotten Machines Of Loving Grace – only sacrificing traditional rock instrumentation for pulsating beats and synths. However, live they chose to represent their sound with limited synthwork and vocals backed by guitars and drums. This was, to my ears, an absolutely critical error. By translating your work into another genre framework, you really risk exposing the weaknesses of your songwriting within said framework. Imperative Reaction write great heart-pounding electronic anthems. They do not write great rock songs with added synth. It also highlighted that as a live rock act, they simply do not cut it. I'm sorry – and many rivetheads and cyberwhatevers might be left frothing in fury at this – but the standards are simply higher for live performance. Them's the breaks.

In the end it all reduced itself to a mushy mess with drums riotously pounded over the top, like someone a few seats away on the train listening to anonymous German techno while your earphones are pumping in metal-lite. The sound itself struggled to maintain it's weekend-long clarity, and I was left listening to my favourite song by them – the brainmelting asskicker 'Judas' – and shaking my head at the unrecognisable mess before walking away. A shame.

Autoclav1.1

Sunday opened with Yorkshire's own Autoclav1.1, whose live performances I have in the past considered to be sub-par to the recorded output, with too much emphasis on big beats and noise elements. OH GOD HERE YOU GO AGAIN, you think. Well, wrong. Dead wrong. Focusing far more on the strengths of the often disturbingly melodic and ambient elements of the sound, the performance was a lesson in the fragmented destruction of elegantly-weaved industrial soundscapes. Colourful and vivid visuals only served to augment the dreamlike quality of the music. A lack of sleep on my part doubtlessly helped provoke this, but Autoclav1.1 annihilated my brain-based cobwebs with aplomb. More of this, please.

Future Trail are next, functional but comfortable EBM traditionalists who are unafraid to mix their 1998 blueprint with 2013 sounds. Some elements of synthpop breaking through, but mostly a sound we have heard before and will hear again performed with workmanlike precision. Nothing spectacular, but potentially an act to watch in the future if they can find their own voice a little more.

It wouldn't be a UK alternative electronic festival without a spot of electro-industrial to make me swear under my breath and barely tolerate long enough to gather fuel for the review. And so I bring you XMH, who I suppose don't do anything wrong with the formula laid down by other acts. It's Suicide Grendel Tactical Commando Sekt, and they are here to goblinise your vocals and go UNK UNK UNK SQUEAL UNK UNK RAARGH. I shouldn't complain too much. They are certainly competent at what they do, and the frontman is undeniably energetic and providing a focal point for the crowd to get enthusiastic about. It's just a sound that is so ubiquitous as to be utterly irrelevant for me. Plus I am getting a bit sick of men standing on stage and screaming about bitches, sluts and whores like they're the next Andy LaPlegua. Issues much?

Sono

Sono are pretty much the opposite of electro-industrial, as a synthpop act with the emphasis on pop and a significant investment in huge quantities of melody. They seem pro as it comes, as well as delighted to be on stage – always a great combination – and frontman Lennart Salomon spreads his friendly enthusiasm to all corners of the crowd as they Depeche Mode it up with the best of them. There's some minimalism and hypnotic sensibilities at work that are enough to lift the songs up from merely fun pop tunes, and the end result is a more than solid addition to the lineup.

Cervello Elettronico are a surprisingly leftfield choice as the penultimate act of the weekend, and they reel out a set of refreshingly old-school glitchy techno sounds. While my bass-based criticisms over the weekend are mainly aimed at Da Octopusss, it's good to hear a beats-centered act that knows how to layer its material right up the scale to provide a sparsely lush experience. Slightly trippy, a bit evocative and ever-so accomplished.

Covenant

And then Covenant rolled on stage to detonate the venue. With their unique take on a synthpop/futurepop crossover they are an act that carry elements to appeal to most of the varied audience, and are one of the few acts who can get away with performing a festival set remarkably laden with more obscure tunes – including no less than three from their debut album “Dreams Of A Cryotank”, which I can comfortably say probably does not sit in the music collections of many folks in the crowd. I find myself in the odd position of not having much to say about Covenant. They are solid gold headliners, and they know it and play accordingly. A storming 'Call The Ships To Port' comes off the blocks with astonishing energy and only ramps it up in the now well-established blood-pounding instrumental kick that follows the chorus. The entire venue levels up and bursts into life. Light flashes, sound solidifies and a short time later everyone wipes themselves down and agrees that yes, that was A Very Good Thing.

I achieve approximately zero sleep that night (for no fascinating or controversial reasons) and rise at dawn to wend my way home. Somewhere nearby there is a wobbling, grinding beat of a party still going down. A few seconds later I realise that it's a broken extractor fan breathing its last.

And that's why I love Infest.

Bands Who Receive The Bastard "At Least 50% Of The Set" Live Seal Of Approval: 

Metal Tech, Dive, AAAK, Wieloryb, Chrysalide, Click Click, Autoclav1.1, Sono, Covenant

Gig Review: Damnationfest 2012

So it's that time of year again when I can write a review of a metal festival, post it, then link to it in as many places as possible so that a vast array of meatheads can email me and post comments to tell me LOL UR GAY GWAR WER AWESUM etc. Admittedly, Gwar didn't play Damnationfest this year. But you get the general idea.

Note for Damnationfest organisers: get Gwar in for next year. If there isn't any simulated sex onstage between bandmembers and people in penguin costumes, I'm not coming.

As always for a large multi-stage festival, this review comes loaded with the caveat that I am one man who quite enjoys standing or sitting in one spot for some length of time, and so I will be covering a small subsection of the 23 bands that played this year. You want me running around taking copious notes based on two tracks caught from each performer? Fucking pay me.

The festival itself was as well-structured and maintained as ever – set times were adhered to, there was a hefty merchandise and stall area, and the Student Union site allows for a thorough raiding of a small supermarket and bakery when alcohol and crushing noise just aren't enough. This more than makes up for the inevitable navigation nightmare that ensues in tight winding corridors when bands finish and their sweaty herd decides to take a stroll to another stage. Speaking of stages, a return to a larger stage layout from the last time I attended (2010, fact fans) was more than welcome. With The Refectory as the largest stage, sometimes it was even possible to attain breathing space in the audience.

So, music then. I kickstarted my day with the first band available – the brutal and incendiary Ravens Creed, who filter old school metal and thrash through a sludgey funnel to produce riffs so meaty that they bleed on their way out of the speakers. It is bastard heavy stuff, which fills the tight confines of the Eyesore stage in an extremely satisfying fashion. All this and a quick derogatory reference to hipsters before launching into a song titled “Stand Up And Be Cunted”. Recommended.

Ravens Creed

Next I wander along to the The Atrocity Exhibit, who peddle a fairly bog standard approach to crusty grindcore with strong death metal elements. It is technically accomplished stuff and there is, to turn a phrase, nowt wrong wi' it. But there's also nothing to particularly fire my enthusiasm. They come across as lineup-filler to my ears. If the genre is your bag, you might feel differently. Onwards to Hawk Eyes, the openers on the main stage. These guys probably fit comfortably into the post-hardcore bracket. But as discussed on this august site previously, who the fuck doesn't? This is Mike Patton worship at a fairly advanced level, melody and chaos being thrust at the crowd in equal measure. There are haircuts, but obviously some talent behind them. As a Leeds band they are carrying the local banner proudly, and certainly are in possession of a fine example of the Leeds alternative sound. I know what I mean by that. No one else ever seems to. What, you want clarity? Go read a mainstream site. I was tempted to stay and catch some more, but time was against me.

Hang The Bastard

And I was quite glad it was, in the end. It allowed me to catch a good chunk of the elegantly-named Hang The Bastard, who are probably the most polite sludgecore band on the planet. In a genre populated almost exclusively by heavily-bearded men who like to drink heavily and punch their fans in the face, it is refreshing to be addressed from stage in-between tectonic slabs of metal by a chap who speaks to a baying crowd like they are his girlfriend's mum. They do what they do very well – and let's not fool ourselves here, every sludge band on the planet sounds exactly the same. Variations on Eyehategod and Iron Monkey, rinse and repeat. It's a genre that wallows proudly in its influences, and while I usually find that cause for concern I'm happy to make an exception for the likes of Hang The Bastard. They have the requisite number of fat bastards, colossal grooving riffs and glass-in-throat gargling to make me a happy man. Another promising find.

Wodensthrone

Upon removing myself to the Eyesore stage again to see Wodensthrone, I find that in my absence a vast swathe of the attendees have engaged in asexual reproduction to form an impenetrable mass that I can only access via wedging myself between the bar, other stinking humans and a wheelchair access device. This is ridiculously uncomfortable, but I suffer through the incredible pain (probably more than you have ever experienced) to see a fair whack of the set. From my agonising position near the back of a low room with a grooved, curved ceiling and multiple open spaces to either side (detail I will throw in to make any sound engineers reading this bite the back of their hand in terror) most of what I can hear is a muffled cacophony of guitars and distorted keyboards. Using my sensitive and astounding critic powers, I can tell that Wodensthrone are something pretty damn impressive. Atmospheric, melodic black metal played right down the nose. The band themselves are obviously engrossed in their performance, which has a knock-on effect of drawing the audience in despite a relative lack of movement or extroverted energy onstage. Having lost several limbs in my contorted position, I retreat after catching enough of them to ensure they are a quality Jormungandr-bothering enterprise.

Blacklisters

The stage empties out significantly for the next band I catch, Blacklisters. Which is a shame, and probably largely because they fall under the aforementioned category of 'hipster' for the majority of metalheads attending. That's not to say they're not, mind. But if they are, then they are top-notch hipster entertainment. Spasming noise rock that doesn't sound a million miles away from an amped-up Shellac being fed into a woodchipper, the major flaw in a performance more physical than most is that they give off a palpable sense of too-cool-for-this that they get away with primarily because they are fucking good at what they are doing. They're probably a bunch of cunts, but that's kind of alright when their music makes every odd-numbered organ in your body leap twelve feet to the left.

Back to the main stage for Textures, a band I seem to not be able to get behind despite their influences being big favourites of mine. But I think that is largely the problem. It's all second-hand Meshuggah riffs alternated with melodic sections that sound like either Devin Townsend or Alice In Chains, depending on what the band felt like the day they wrote it. And trust me, I realise that sounds awesome. But in execution, it lacks something significant. While as a whole the songs sound polished and slick – which is to their detriment in and of itself – transitions between thundering djent and lofty melody are sudden, awkward and ill-timed. Truly less than the sum of their parts, Textures just come across as a fusion of different derivative elements. I will say this, though – they have a better stage presence as a whole band than any other act over the entire day. Shame about the music.

The next band I attempt to see are Bossk, but it becomes clear that actually getting into the Eyesore stage is more trouble than it is worth and may involve stabbing a good number of people to actually move forward ten or so feet. If I was a less charitable man I might claim that this was down to a great number of local scene pricks hanging out by the bar and talking over the music in a pathetic attempt to accrue points for being there. But I am nothing if not charitable, so let's move on.

Gama Bomb

Gama Bomb take to the stage some time later, and it is clear that they have quite a following for a band halfway up the lineup. I can see why, too. Kind of. They play thrash metal on the punkier end of the spectrum, full of lyrics about zombies and evil and haha what a jolly lark it is to be in a metal band blah blah blah. Which I admit is probably very appealing if you're not me, and therefore crippled by cynicism and pretension. The band themselves are clearly as happy to play as the crowd are to hear them, and almost completely defuse any criticism I might make of them playing derivative mediocre material with a 'comedy' spin (the inverted commas are because to produce successful comedy, you need actual jokes and not just to write songs about daft things) by reading out amusing critiques of them - containing sentiments much the same as what I was thinking while watching - to the audience, and remaining pretty self-aware of their limitations throughout. So well played, Gama Bomb. I didn't particularly like you, but now feel like a bit of a dick for it. Well played.

Primordial

Next up on the main stage are Primordial, who are one of the only bands I have failed to research or listen to before arriving. Yes, I research these things. I'm not some bequiffed and tattooed wanker who thinks their cache as a critic is largely linked to how many bands they can get wasted with and whose copy is littered with basic factual errors about genre and sound. I am a proud unpaid professional and none of you are worthy of kissing my damn feet.

But I digress, slightly. Primordial. I had no idea what to expect, which may have been a contributing factor to how impressed I was. Which was very. Highly melodic blackened doom with sub-operatic vocals (that's a compliment, folks) performed like road-hardened veterans. Frontman Alan Averill – yeah, I've done my research now – herded and drove the crowd like a master, splattered with Jackson Pollock corpse paint and unafraid to bellow slightly ridiculous metal banter at the crowd without the slightest sense of irony. Galloping riffs underpinned by atmospheric breakdowns, all wolves and blood red stars and moonlight glinting off blades.

Lovely stuff.

My Dying Bride

So onto My Dying Bride, who I had not been particularly anticipating despite being a big fan. I'm not sure why. Perhaps because I have seen them a number of times before, perhaps because it has been 6 years since they released an album that really impressed me. Either way, by strolling onstage and giving the best performance of the day they left me pleasantly surprised. A newly-shorn Aaron looked like some kind of ascetic hermit as he stalked onstage and writhed around in torment to their definitive brand of gothic doom. I would hope the torment is pretty much faux, after all these years. Otherwise the poor lad must have an awful time of all these immortal unfulfilled desires and eternally lost hopes. Either way, My Dying Bride forced a wonderfully miserable setlist down our throats. Highlights included a three-in-a-row blinder of “Like Gods Of The Sun”, “To Remain Tombless” and “She Is The Dark” that was without a doubt the best twenty minutes I've had in quite some time. No sniggering at the back.

Pig Destroyer

Main stage headliners Electric Wizard emerged a short time later to a psychedelic backdrop and immense rolling feedback that gave way to monolithic riffage. They're quite heavy, quite slow and they like Black Sabbath a fair bit. Not much else needs to be said, really. Especially since I left their set about 15 minutes in (which means I only heard about one-tenth of a song) to go see Pig Destroyer headline the Terrorizer stage. The cerebral grindcore heroes were the main draw of the festival for me, so I arrived there in anticipation despite the lethargy of the teetotal festival-goer and my natural sense of almost complete contempt for everything. When they finally kicked off somewhat late, it quickly became apparent that the sound in the main crowd pit was pretty damn abysmal. So I moved to a higher balcony, where the sound was undoubtedly improved. Unfortunately, that wasn't the end of the problems with the set. While it sounded better up high, J.R. Hayes vocals were still a muffled croaking mush. I get that in grindcore that is kinda the standard anyway, but it came across as technical rather than stylistic. The band themselves seemed fairly nonplussed at being there, spending most of their time rocking back and forth on their feet and looking at each other. There was little to no crowd interaction, each song was bookended with about two minutes of either silence or keyboard/sampler noise and after the first ten minutes or so there was a noticeable steady bleed of audience members out from the room.

Quite a few of them wearing Pig Destroyer shirts, which is never a good sign.

I am actually still struggling to reconcile what I thought of this gig with the obvious violent bliss many were feeling down in the main pit. There was a veritable tsunami of bodies rolling back and forth down there, and I wonder if from my lofty physical and emotional perch I wasn't getting it. But all I can do is call 'em as I see 'em. And the band seemed as bored as the members of the audience who weren't kicking the shit out of each other. Once a long technical problem halfway through soaked up a lot of set time, the number of tunes that actually got played was pretty pathetic. After accounting for a late start, an early finish, a technical gap in the middle, an unwarranted departure for an encore and healthy amounts of absolute nothing inbetween two-minute long songs, I'd estimate that Pig Destroyer played between twenty and twenty-five minutes of music in a headlining set.

Not good enough. Nowhere near. Especially shortly after having seen Primordial and My Dying Bride, both of whom performed headline-quality sets in standard slots. All this and no “Mapplethorpe Grey” or “Carrion Fairy”. A big fat hefty 'meh' for the my main draw of the festival.

And yet I left feeling thoroughly satisfied. Overall, it represented a fucking solid day of extremely obnoxious music. Chalk another one up for the Damnationfest team. Bring on next year.

Gig Review: Resistanz Festival 2012

Well, this review might go on a bit. Lots of it might not really be directly about the bands that played. It may, in fact, turn into a rant. I will try and keep myself focused, but I am also aware that my rants tend to make for quite entertaining reading.

Unless they're about you and your friends. Sorry about that.

It was my first time at Resistanz this year, and most of the reservations I had about a festival being pitched at Sheffield's Corporation venue were tipped over the side shortly after I arrived. There was plenty of room to maneuver, a seating area by the food and clothing stalls, relatively easy access to the numerous bars and more club-oriented rooms in which to lounge if the acts onstage weren't your cup of tea.

Set times were adhered to, the venue was well-staffed and the sound quality was mostly decent (with an emphasis on 'mostly' - we'll come back to that bit later). So all round, 'nuff respect to the Resistanz masterminds and crew. And really, that's mostly what you want from a festival unless you're a filthy teetotal musical bitch. Like me. So onwards to the bands, then.

Saturday kicked off at top speed with Memmaker, a hard dance collective who have made a mark on these pages before - surprising me with a driving performance at Infest 2010. And they delivered much the same at Resistanz, getting most of the early starters into the mood with some crunchy beats and high energy synthlines. It's not (strictly speaking) my thing, but there's no denying that they were a great warm-up act for what was to follow. So great, in fact, that I have to question their placing right down at the bottom of the bill. In all honesty, they were better than anyone else on the Saturday. Give these chaps higher festival slots, please.

Following this kickin' opening were Be My Enemy, a leaden slab of metal-tinged techno-industrial fronted by Cubanate alumnus Phil Barry. And frankly, Cubanate is a very appropriate touchstone. Going so far as to cover a couple of their tracks - including evergreen dancefloor mauler "Oxyacetylene" - they show a lot of promise but something feels like it isn't quite clicking yet. A new take on what they are following on from, perhaps. In addition to this, Barry's JS Clayden-esque sneering whine takes a bit of getting used to when one is used to Marc Heal's ursine roar over the top of this kind of material. None of this was helped by an extremely muddy, poor sound mix.

Next up was trippy-industrial power noise mentalist Jamie Blacker with his project E.S.A., and while his shows are always incendiary and overflowing with aggressive adrenal release I found something slightly lacking to this one. A relative paucity of material from career highlight 'The Sea & The Silence', maybe. Or perhaps now that the power noise scene has gotten a taste of live performance I have become used to howling men in wifebeater vests bashing electronic drums along to big acidic beats. Regardless, it was still a decent show and E.S.A. remain a solid live recommendation.

Soman get labelled with a lot of fraudulent genre titles, but realistically his stuff can be comfortable and simply slotted into the 'techno' bracket. Without a doubt the purest dance material of the weekend, his bubbling enthusiasm for playing live is something that could be seen to be holding the performance together. The music itself is neither stripped-back nor gnarly enough to push itself out from a crowd of similar artists who have been cannibalising each other since the early 1990s, but how much does that matter when one is faced with a grinning lunatic bouncing up and down on stage and generally channeling the cheery raving face of Tyres from Spaced? Well, to a dour old hack like me - it matters quite a lot. Not so much for the audience though, who are fairly happy to just zone out and move to the everpresent four-on-the-floor beat. Soman seems to be slowly morphing into the DJ Tiësto of the industrial scene. Make of that what you will.

A change of pace is heralded by Frozen Plasma taking the stage, wielding a fairly stale take on the old electropop formula championed by the likes of And One. If that's your thing, cool. You'd have lapped them up. Their only saving grace for me was Felix Marc's genuine attempt to be an engaging frontman. This, however, was let down by a mediocre vocal performance and some genuinely drab and dull music to jump around listlessly along to.

Nachtmahr. Oh, Nachtmahr. When will we ever get along? Not any time soon, if this performance is to be a herald of things to come. I will refer the reader once again to my Infest 2010 review, where I railed against the whole military fashion aesthetic and theme of the band like the bleeding-heart liberal bore I am. But what struck me about them this time round wasn't along those lines (apart from Thomas Rainer's haircut, which is getting more Hitler-like every year). It was just how sub-par they are musically. Electro-industrial, electro-industrial, doof doof doof eek eek eek. Waagh waagh waagh half-hearted shouty bit. Like most popular non-noise sub-genres in 'the scene' these days, it's taking a pattern laid down by Suicide Commando and proceeding to smooth out the rough edges, paint it a different shade of black then repeat ad nauseum. And hell, even Suicide Commando were a tad repetitive on the best of days. Throw in some borderline offensive Combichrist misanthropy/un-PC antagonism and we're good to go. I was struck especially by the tune "Mädchen In Uniform", which sounded like an early teenage garage band got ahold of a bunch of synthesisers and wrote a song for their school's battle of the bands.

And yet you schlubs fucking swallow it down and beg for more. I hate all of you.

Saturday was headlined by Grendel. I caught about two songs by them, enough to be rickrolled. Coreline did it better. He had a dance troupe, and the redoubtable Keef Baker dressed as a carrot. Strip the poorly judged Rick Astley cover out, and it's just more electro-industrial. Yeah ok, they're a bit better at it than most. They've been doing it longer. But still. It's a sub-genre revolving around an endless wannabe-cyberpunk scratchy vinyl loop and I'm far too bitter a human being (and lazy a reviewer) to sit through more of it than I have to.

So sorry, Grendel. Sorry, Grendel fans. You're all the very best people, I'm sure. But doof doof doof, eek eek eek. Snore.

Sunday arrived. I made an attempt to shed the horrible pitted husk of my usual self to enjoy Surgyn, and was mildly surprised to find I nearly made it there. Bringing together elements of futurepop, more traditional industrial and ~grits teeth~ electro-industrial to a fairly cohesive whole, what they lack in genre spot-welding talent they make up for with making the effort to put on a show and put across a persona. The overall effect is somewhat brought down by a slight shonkyness that pervades everything, and a potentially interesting insert of operatic vocals into the more typical vocal delivery is let down by a lack of, well, singing ability. But all these things are nothing a hefty lump of experience couldn't fix. Ones to watch.

And just in case I was under a feverish delusion that there would be a surfeit of innovation for the rest of the day, Detroit Diesel come along and pound out a harsh EBM set that seriously could have been any other act peddling similar wares. I suppose I should give thanks they weren't exactly electro-industrial, but it just made me feel I was watching a Decoded Feedback tribute act. Nothing especially wrong, but nothing especially right either. Next.

Oh no. Wait. Next was FGFC820, wasn't it? Christ. More harsh EBM, only now with a military aesthetic and lyrics. All my favourite things in one place. Stomping around the stage in a flak jacket to recycled/simplified old FLA burbles and synths does not make you an American Funker Vogt.  Bereft of charisma, nothing individual or remarkable whatsover. Like an overweight army reject dry-humping his replica M6 carbine along to the beat. While you bay and cheer and dance like the dogs you are.

That's unfair, actually. It implies they went down well. They didn't, really. Maybe you're not all that bad after all.

Thank the great old ones for W.A.S.T.E then, who blast through a tight set of genuinely varied industrial noise complete with full video backing (ranging from atrocities to '80s breakdancing) and occasionally break off from their rhythmic assault to come centre stage and bellow at the swollen crowd. This was the rarest of things, a noise set that felt like a proper gig and not a DJ. Melodic elements were discernable despite the brutal and unforgiving machine noise layers, and the songs featuring vocals really lifted material above and beyond their genre confines. At times veering excitingly close to a more unrelenting and violent old school industrial, W.A.S.T.E definitely got the crowd moving again.

Straftanz. Very popular. Undoubtedly a party act with a fairly mixed batch of sounds and songs, some of their stuff almost touched on electro (for any scene kids reading this, that's without the -industrial bit, and sounding really quite different). Like most party acts though, it wasn't my thing. There's a limit to how much I can jump up and down and go 'woo', and Straftanz hit it about 10 seconds into their set. Can't really condemn them though. Go see them and decide for yourself. What, you want quality AND dedication in your reviews? Go to someone who gets paid for it.

Then Ultraviolence came on stage, and the average age of the audience members went up by 20 years. Managing to be both faintly embarassing and really quite enjoyable, Johnny Violent seemed moderately shocked to be onstage playing to a number of people who still knew his songs. It was a fair tour of his older 1,000,000bpm gabber material alongside at least one newer track that came overlaid with a glittering sheen and was, somewhat shockingly, really very good. That's not to say I don't enjoy Ultraviolence on record or live, but to be handing out genuinely decent dancefloor tunes at this stage in his career wasn't what I had expected. Perhaps a new album, Mr Violent? If it maintains consistency it would be a worthy purchase. Backing the shouting/big beat chicanery was some angle grinding and such, which did wonders to pad out the inherently pared-down sound. Closing with an inevitable "Hardcore Motherfucker", it was a set that most likely satisfied old fans and maybe even piqued the interest of a few vacant cyberkiddies.

A total change was then on the cards with mind.in.a.box taking to the stage and running through their synthpop material transformed for a traditional live rock band setup. As an exercise for an electronic act, it's fascinating. As something for a near-headliner to do in front of a festival crowd used to their recorded material and with heads full of grinding beats, it's incredibly bold. And it worked too, though the sound once more collapsed under the weight of all those filthy analog instruments. Since the only other band to really suffer from bad sound over the weekend was Be My Enemy, I am forced to conclude that whoever was conducting the engineering for the weekend wasn't used to bands who have non-electronic elements. It beggars belief that any sound engineers fit into that category. Maybe it was just bad luck/equipment. If not (and if the entire weekend was conducted by a single group of guys), then someone needs a thorough whipping for pretending to be competent enough to mix a festival.

And while we're at it, back onto a common cause of complaint for me. Venues, get some decent lighting people in. Because what The Corporation have right now, as many of you do, is not a lighting expert. They're a fucking epilepsy technician. Strobes - 5 second maximum. Once. In one song. Per set. Some bands don't need them at all. Light shows need subtlety, not everything turned up to 11. You're there to augment the performance, not hammer on your buttons like an overexcited primate.

Where were we? Oh yeah, mind.in.a box - innovative, well-executed proggy synthpop guitar thing. Different, engaging and emotive. The tracks I did recognise I definitely prefer in their original format, but I am willing to drop my mask of vile cynicism for a band as genuinely heartfelt as this. Full marks for effort and execution, and a welcome breath of fresh air.

The Sunday - and festival - headliners were Icon Of Coil, and it took less than half a song for anyone with any semblance of brain activity to realise why. Rolling onto the stage like conquering heroes, it was a set that drove home just how little there needs to be seperating the energy of an electronic band from a rock/metal band in a live setting if people know what they are doing. It also clearly hammered in place just how superior IOC were to the current output of follow-up acts like Combichrist. Bringing out half of their debut album 'Serenity Is The Devil' and augmented by choice picks off their other releases, I felt for the first time that my body was moving in some kind of rhythmic pattern. After several minutes, I slowly came to the realisation that I was dancing. I am apparently not quite as leached of passion and youth as the rest of this review might have you believe.

Crucially, Icon's performance helped highlight the weaknesses of a good deal of the other acts that weekend. Charisma? Check. Distinctive sound? Check. A raft of quality material? Check. All things provided by experience and a lack of willingness to simply go through the motions. I'll leave off from completing this rant because I feel an article coming on, but to put it simply - they were awesome. Glittering futurepop anthems like "Dead Enough For Life" were mixed with the likes of the darkly throbbing "Floorkiller", and an encore emerged in the form of their excellent cover of Front 242's "Headhunter". This hopefully won't be the last we see of Icon Of Coil.

There were undoubtedly decent acts scattered through the weekend, and I can't fault the setup of the festival itself. But the message I was left with? The cyber-whatever scene is in desperate need of an adrenalising injection containing equal parts innovation, talent and serotonin.

Gig Review: Helmet @ Sound Control, Manchester

Band reunion tours and albums are everywhere you look these days, and the results can charitably be called mixed. But before we delve into where the Helmet reunion falls on the good/shit spectrum, it is our duty to dabble with the support act.

Fighting With Wire are a bunch of amiable Irish chaps who come across as fairly youthful yet seasoned tour supports and arrive in Manchester wielding a grungey alt.-rock aesthetic that stands to reap huge dividends for them in the current musical climate. A wee bit of early Biffy Clyro here, a dram of Nirvana there and a mixed dollop of A and Foo Fighters to top things off. Their biggest problem is a pronounced lack of originality, combined with a sometimes jarring transition of sounds between songs. The latter in itself isn't a problem - but it becomes one when every song is strongly reminiscent of a different influence. Still, there's plenty of charisma and toned energy on show. They're certainly not objectionable and with some more work on their own style they could make significant headway.

And so on to Helmet. Since their reformation in 2004, they have put out three albums of somewhat questionable quality. And by that, I mean they weren't very good. At all. While not quite at the bottom of the dreck pile, they're also far below the level one would expect from the guys who put out the likes of 'Meantime' and 'Aftertaste'. Which might be because, Chris Traynor on the first two new records aside, the rebirth of Helmet has been Page Hamilton plus Other Musicians. This is a growing trend in band reunions, and a sign that increasingly a whole band dynamic is being undervalued. Either that, or that people will do anything for cash once the money is gone. Maybe I'm just being cynical and demanding that my old favourites live up to my nostalgic standards. But hey, both of those are valuable skills for any reviewer.

Still, I'm not here to judge the last three Helmet records. "What was the gig like, o Bastard of our dreams?" I hear you cry.

Well, it was much better than their recent studio efforts. An initial smattering of newer material was helped along by both opening with my favourite Helmet tune "Like I Care", not to mention the reverse-order playthrough of their 1992 classic 'Meantime' that followed the initial salvo. Page Hamilton plus Other Musicians rammed home an hour and a bit of punishing and angular rock into our sweaty faces - and it was punishment eagerly accepted by a relaxed but enthusiastic crowd. The blips of recent songwriting that poked their heads above the battlement tentatively did come across better in a live setting, as did the weaker tracks off 'Meantime' itself - which melds together excellently into a blistering whole when being pitched offstage as precisely timed depth charges of bass-driven sound. There is an authority and power to the seemingly simple song construction and riffage of older Helmet songs that is hard to deny, and the more one listens to said songs the more it becomes apparent just how big a debt a lot of younger bands owe these forefathers of alternative metal.

Hamilton is surprisingly affable and funny onstage, as well. Which helps to smoothen the gig along, since even their most ardent fan would be hard-pressed to deny that much of the earlier Helmet material can be somewhat po-faced. The reason for the choice to play 'Meantime' backwards becomes firmly apparent by the close of the gig, when a storming "In The Meantime" comes roaring out of the amps like a righteously charging bull and each individual unified stomp pounds the floor to dusty chunks. A swift choice pick of tunes from 'Betty' and 'Aftertaste' closes proceedings, leaving all concerned well satisfied and sufficiently brutalised.

So, then. The newer incarnation of Helmet. I can't in all honesty recommend the albums. But miss Hamilton & company live at your own mortal peril.

Gig Review: Pop Will Eat Itself @ The Duchess, York

It's been a while since I have been out to gigs on a regular basis. But that's ok, because the headliners for this show haven't been playing gigs on a regular basis for even longer. So we can grow together in the most beautiful way a band and a critic can - by sloppy writing on an obscure review blog.

But first, the support act. Local goth-tinged newcomers Berlin Black are an intriguing prospect, if only because they are the only new band I have seen linked to the UK goth scene in a long time who are actually in possession of their own nuanced sound. A slick fusion of jagged post-punk sneer with pop sensibilities and a penchant for echoing indie rock choruslines, the closest touchstone I can hit upon is that they sound oddly like The Killers. That is more of a compliment than it might seem. It's refreshing to see songcraft and style together under the banner of hairspray and black leather - one to watch, with an EP review incoming soon.

This particular Pop Will Eat Itself reunion is reduced down to co-vocalist Graham Crabb and a bunch of hired hands. Last year's comeback album was a patchy affair that did nothing particularly wrong but also failed to show much of the anarchic glimmer that suffused all the previous PWEI material - coming across more like the stock industrial metal that took its cues from 'Dos Dedos Mis Amigos' than the bold original itself. And at first it seemed that the gig would follow suit as a pale imitation of former glories. Bursting onto stage with somewhat forced enthusiasm and pelting straight into some classic tunes, it was clear that a genuine energy was something that the audience would have to take a hand at building themselves.

The lineup themselves were an odd mix - Clint Mansell replaced by Mary Byker (bringing some extra grebo cache that was much needed), former Pitchshifter drummer Jason Bowld behind the kit and the guitar/bass fronted by two chaps constructed mostly of tattoos and haircuts. That's not to say any of these people were poor choices. Solid musicians all, with Bowld providing an extraordinarily tight hi-speed backing of thumping beats while Byker did an astonishingly good Mansell impression throughout. The latter also provided some visual dynamism, which was lucky because ironically Crabb was certainly the weak link throughout. Having not seen PWEI at the height of their powers, I'm not sure if he has always struggled to perform vocal duties in a live setting or whether this is a case of age conquering all. Either way, it was strange to see what could effectively be argued to be a cover act solidly outperform the only original member of the band onstage.

Once past the initial hump of uncertainty dogging them, the likes of "Everything's Cool" and "Preaching To The Perverted" were blasted into the crowd with a fair amount of verve and tenacity. The sheer variety of material was a boon in this situation, since if a particularly heavy machine rock-style choice didn't quite synch up - typically their newer material, which came across as unremarkable live as it is on record - then pretty soon a sloganeering mashup of hip-hop, electro and Madchester sounds would blare out and effectively reinvent the room. By the time the encore rolled around, everything was back on track to the degree that a padded-out version of "Their Law" came across as pure PWEI, with all semblance of The Prodigy screaming away into the distance. A rousing "Wise Up Sucker" closed affairs, and wrapped up possibly the jammiest gig recovery I have ever seen. The jury is still out on whether the the Poppies' reunion can provide the goods on record, but if they work on coming faster off the blocks then they can still be an appealing prospect live.

Gig Review: Swans @ Stylus

I think this is the first gig I have ever seen where the most striking thing about the entire evening was neither aural nor visual. Swans eschew these traditional live music values in favour of a rumbling vibration that is transmitted through the floor and directly into your spine.

But I digress. What of the support? For those unfamiliar with the ‘softer’ side of Michael Gira's output in both Swans and The Angels Of Light, the choice of James Blackshaw might seem odd. Gentle acoustic 12-string instrumentals are the name of the game, and though they are lost somewhat in the expansive, multi-tiered environs of the Stylus there is a high level of musicianship and a great ear for melody on display. Blackshaw himself seems either terminally shy or remarkably disingenuous, at one point going so far as to tell audience members near the front that they can move further away from the stage if they want.

The evening belongs to Swans though, opening with a tingling drone that goes on long enough for this correspondent to wonder if he was experiencing The Hum. Before I managed to pen a real life experiences letter to Fortean Times, live percussionist Thor Harris wanders onto stage and begins to hammer out sequences of chimes on a set of tubular bells. This in turn goes on for a good few minutes before the rest of the band amble out and slowly pick up their instruments. When the full instrumentation of opener “No Words/No Thoughts” does kick in, it does so with a crash of unbelievably intense guitars and drums that act as a solid blow to the jaw after the protracted opening. Gira and Norman Westberg are the only long-term members of Swans remaining, but the band stayed close to their 'no-wave' roots for the performance.

Pummelling the crowd with slices from early releases and latest LP 'My Father Will Guide Me Up A Rope To The Sky', there is little to no respite for the next hour or so. Tracks like “I Crawled” and “Your Property” are not exactly feel-good anthems to begin with, but the combination of Gira's in-the-flesh howling and the lean, dry thousand yard stare of Westberg is enough to hammer home the barely restrained sexual rage. Whenever Gira is not at the microphone he is still spitting vitriol with eyes closed, seemingly speaking in tongues as he tips his head back and mutters inaudible sentiments. I don't know what he was saying to his demons, and I'm not sure I want to know. It is all the more affecting and wrenching coming from a band mostly composed of men well into their 50s. The next time a fresh young act declares themselves to be the heaviest thing going, I will shriek with incoherent laughter before clubbing them all to the ground with my face. The only experience heavier than this is inserting yourself into a car crusher headfirst. Even the mellower material such as standout song of the evening “Jim” manages to worm itself into a position of uncomfortable power.

The only real criticisms I could level their way would be that their material from 'White Light From The Mouth Of Infinity' and 'The Great Annihilator' is much missed, and that if anything the experience is too intense. Periodic retreats away from the stage were necessary to actually maintain physical cohesion, and the crowd noticeably thinned throughout as the more fashionable members of the audience decided that the scene points gained from a Swans gig were not worth their flesh being stripped from their bones note by note.

Did I enjoy this gig? I'm not sure. Was I glad I saw it? Definitely. Would I repeat the experience? Hell yes. Make of that what you will.

Gig Review: Deftones @ Leeds O2 Academy

I know I'm not the only person noticing the rocketing numbers of ill-behaved twats attending gigs in the UK over the past few years. I think it's a symptom of the growing popularity of live music, coupled with the revitalised exposure to new genres and acts that the internet has dragged screaming with it into the 21^st century. These are of course both positive developments, but a side effect seems to be that shows are increasingly populated by mouthbreathing bellends with little to no idea of how to enjoy themselves without inconveniencing others. The time has probably come for the more sensible and diligent among us to act on this. I suggest perhaps bringing along a fire axe and plastic coveralls to future events, and laying about yourself wildly whilst shrieking incoherent noises, tears of joy streaming down your face. Don't worry about the possibility of hitting other innocent gig-goers. They will understand and respect the part their maiming played in improving the live music experience for everyone.

As you may be able to tell, the crowd at this gig was not a shining example of gentlemanly conduct. But frankly, I don't want them to colour this piece. Not least because they inspired me to construct another article, which will be stomping and thrashing over the horizon soon.

Coheed And Cambria are a bit of an odd choice for a support band on this tour. Partly because they have a very different style of music to the headliners (though both acts are more or less unique, which I suppose is a uniting factor) and partly because they are quite possibly popular enough to fill the venue by themselves. And there is certainly no lack of fans out for them tonight, which makes it a bit of a shame that their set comes across a little bit lacklustre. From previous gigs I am well aware that their brand of prog-pop-punk can be both captivating and vital in a live arena, but a subdued performance and a slightly uninspiring setlist combine to produce a support slot that was functional rather than inspiring. Still, a rousing rendition of “World Of Lines” near the set's conclusion proved that their recent LP 'Year Of The Black Rainbow' can provide the goods on stage as well as on plastic.

Earlier that day I had come to the realisation that I was actually looking forward to Coheed And Cambria a great deal more than Deftones, mostly based on my history with them live. C&C had blown me away a couple of times, and the only time I have managed to catch Deftones they had been fairly average and distinctly lacking energy.

So given that I found Coheed And Cambria a bit disappointing, it was deliciously surprising that Deftones steamrollered their way onto the stage like conquering heroes. I can confidently say that I have never experienced such a transition in quality and energy from one tour to the next. Chino Moreno spent almost the entire length of a satisfyingly long set dashing and leaping from one end of the stage to the next, occasionally perching himself on blocks at the front to survey his kingdom. Vocally he was astonishing, swinging between breathless crooning and gut-wrenching screams with no loss of clarity in either. The rest of the band provided solid blocks of motion, playing with a static intensity that was next to album-perfect. Last time I saw these guys they were a muddy mess of sound with an almost total lack of motion that was only lifted into the realms of acceptable viewing by the distinctive beauty of the material and the workmanlike sense of cracking on with another night's touring. The change was jawdropping.

The set was mostly comprised of segments of material performed back-to-back from one album at a time – a formula which has the potential to go very wrong but somehow came together despite the somewhat disparate nature of the Deftones' back catalogue. “Rocket Skates” kicked off the proceedings, a bleeding strike to the belly before they kicked into an amazing sequence from 1997's classic 'Around The Fur' – the title track itself, “My Own Summer”, “Be Quiet And Drive”, “Lotion” – all blistering and raw. Material from latest album 'Diamond Eyes' acquitted itself wonderfully and proved just as popular with the crowd as the older tunes. The only album missing from the rotation was 2006’s ‘Saturday Night Wrist’ , which was fine by me since I consider it to be by far their weakest release. A closing double blast came in the form of “Engine No.9” and “7 Words”, both of which sent the venue into paroxysms of violent ecstasy.

I'll draw this to a close before my prose becomes any more purple. As a band I think they can be rightfully proud of a renewed fire in their belly, both in the studio and on the road. I can't help but wonder how much of this renewed energy has come from an immediacy brought about by the tragedy of bassist Chi Cheng's accident and ensuing coma, which he has sadly not emerged from as yet. If so, they are taking an extremely bad hand life has dealt them and turning it into a royal flush.

Gig Review: Damnation Festival 2010

2010 seems to be the year that festivals in West Yorkshire subtly alter their regular venues to be slightly more uncomfortable for the punters. Infest was held in the awkwardly rebuilt Bradford University Student Union, and Damnationfest followed suit by downgrading the rooms utilised in the Leeds University Student Union, so that the expansive Refectory has fallen by the wayside – the far cosier Stylus now acting as the main stage.

There is still a fair amount of room to maneuver for most bands, and it is likely to be a symptom of falling ticket sales or venue preference rather than any organisational issues. But I still hope next year brings a return to the Refectory. It is a somewhat snotty complaint to make, since being sited at the Union means that the festival essentially has an onsite bakery and supermarket. I now firmly believe that these things should be standard for all gigs. Frankly, from this day forward if I can't buy tasty, piping hot sausage rolls at a gig I will be giving them a shit review. Priorities, people.

In any case, on to the bands. I arrived somewhat tardy so missed a good clump of opening acts, but just in time to catch the reunited comedy thrash veterans Lawnmower Deth on the aforementioned Stylus stage. One thing extreme metal festivals cannot be said to possess in excess is a sense of humour, and in that regard it was refreshing to arrive at the proceedings with a blast of good fun. There were balloons flying around and crowdsurf racing involving a chap in corpse paint and a sombrero. Grim and gritty it was not. Not being overly familiar with their material I was at a bit of a loss as to whether their short blasts of punky riffage were particularly apt, but as the crowd seemed to lap it up greedily I am guessing they were anything but a disappointment to the gathered faithful.

From the old school to the relatively youthful, as I moved into (the utterly inappropriately sized) Pulse to catch October File. Every time I catch this band I marvel at how they seem to be slowly morphing into a metal Killing Joke, and this was no exception. Lots of stompy, precise and crunchy guitars and pounding drums. Ben Hollyer's vocals in particular are almost a direct parallel to Jaz Coleman at his most abrasive, and their pseudo-apocalyptic imagery isn't a million miles away either. They manage to stay just on the right side of the influence/imitation boundary by wedging in a good quantity of Machine Head-style grinding beatdowns, but I can't help but feel that by extending their range a little bit they might find their own feet rather than doing an (admittedly very enjoyable) job of swanning about in the shadow of the mighty 'Joke. I resolved to steer clear of the Pulse stage for the rest of the day, since it was clear from the sound in the confined space of the room that no band playing there would be audibly at the top of their game.

But that was just as well, since it was more or less time for a triple whammy of quality acts back in Stylus, which would more or less take me through to the close of the proceedings. It wasn't long before reunited British metal heroes earthtone9 took to the stage, and proceeded to roundly blow every other act out of the water with a rousing and triumphant return performance. I am moderately ashamed to say that I never caught them live in their heyday, but this more than made up for my awful past. The likes of "Star Damage For Beginners", "Withered" and "approx. purified" were object lessons in beautiful brutality, with Karl Middleton's angel/demon vocals a display of primal power for the similarly layered instrumentation to revolve around. The band practically radiated good cheer and a sense of thankfulness at the worshipful reaction they received – it is a rare and beautiful thing when an audience and a band feed off each other in a cycle of energetic enthusiasm until a kind of synchronised mindless joy is achieved, but this was certainly one of those occasions. It is mostly pointless trying to describe et9 to people who haven't heard them before, as they genuinely occupy a niche all of their own. Cerebral but brutal with an almost Eastern feel to the melodies threaded through the towering riffage. Back in the day the British music press (bastards to a man) liked to call them 'art metal' while they masturbated furiously over their ability to coin irrelevant genre definitions. They were also frequently called the 'British answer to Tool', which really is utterly devoid of any meaning.

What this gig showed is that, more than anything, they were unique and vital. Metal with balls and brains, this is something that we need in 2010 more than ever before. Welcome back chaps. You have been sorely missed.

After I had finished quivering and dribbling stunned praise to anyone within earshot, it was time for Paradise Lost. Another band who I have somehow managed to consistently miss live despite having been a huge fan for the last 15 years or so. It is in a way fortunate that I have used up all of my gloriously positive vocabulary for earthtone9, since this long-overdue viewing was something of a different story.

Musically they were spot-on and captivating. The setlist wasn't particularly objectionable, although their mid-period material stood out a long way as both their best writing and clearly what they as a band enjoyed performing the most – particularly “Enchantment” and “One Second", both of which produced roars of approval from the crowd. Out of their newer material, only “The Enemy” really stood out with its gorgeously hypnotic grind of a middle eight.

So what was the problem? Unfortunately, it's the shitty attitude of a guy called Nick Holmes who just so happens to be the vocalist. You know a performer has an axe to grind when they introduce one of their oldest, most popular songs with "We wrote this years ago when we were kids. I hated it then, I hate it now. Sing along if you know it, I can't be arsed."

Right. Ok, Mr Holmes. The problem is that we can be arsed. Because we've spent quite a bit of cash over the years buying your albums and your merch and hey, also on this here gig ticket. An objectionable attitude is something that can just about be pulled over by the right band, but when your stock in trade is melodic gothic metal you just come across as a right twat. It is quite clear that playing the gig is a bit of an inconvenience for him, and the contemptuous vibe spills right out into the crowd where several pits come very close to turning into outright brawls. To be fair, the rest of the band seem to have no such problem and they more or less carry the gig to its conclusion in a fit state. I had been warned about this particular facet to Paradise Lost performances well in advance, but it still left me with a foul taste in my mouth.

I would say that I enjoyed them, but in spite of this attitude rather than because of it. That is disappointing, because it is shoddy and unprofessional behaviour from an act approaching 20 years in age.

And so on to the headliners, The Dillinger Escape Plan. Perhaps an odd choice for a festival centred on more traditional metal acts, but their popularity is more than apparent by the packed nature of the Stylus stage as their slot approaches. Uncompromising is perhaps the best way to describe the band both on record and live, and it is certainly a wake-up call after the snarky malaise of Paradise Lost. They approach the performance like an invading army, flinging themselves around the stage and throwing shapes as if suffering from some group nervous system disorder. You could believe that from the construction of their insanely elaborate and blindingly intense music as well. The only clue that they are not in fact experiencing some hideously painful contortions of the brain and body is that technically their musicianship is ridiculously adept. As both a critic and a musician I have precisely zero comprehension of how one of the guitarists (either Ben Weinman or Jeff Tuttle, they move around much too fast to actually identify from the somewhat distant position I had occupied) can climb up a 12 foot amp stack, swing his guitar entirely around his body and then leap to the ground while still maintaining a tight, lucid grip on the spasming time signatures that DEP seem to pull out of thin air.

The band as a whole perform flawlessly and with a sense of confidence that is staggering considering that other, perfectly competent bands would struggle to play their material while standing still and concentrating with constipated expressions wracking their faces. If anything the experience is almost too intense, a combination of sound and movement and strobe lights that leaves me exhausted even sat on the floor watching from a balcony at the back of the room. By the time half of their set has passed I am bereft of my senses from a day of heaviness capped with this audio-visual barrage, and crawl home on my hands and knees, muttering obscenities with pupils ten inches wide.

That is a recommendation, in case you were wondering.

(Post-script: Nick Holmes' Twitter feed declared that this gig was his favourite in the band’s history. I would hate to see a performance on a bad day. In addition, several other reviews I have read prior to publishing this have lauded their performance. Perhaps I am being harsh. But the end result for me and several other audience members of my acquaintance was as described, so I will remain steadfast until corrected or made to feel excessively guilty.)

Gig Review: Infest 2010

It's been a long two years since I attended Infest, the UK's premier alternative electronic festival. I sat out of 2008 due to a general lack of interest in the lineup, only to be told by all and sundry that it had basically been the best thing since sliced bleep. 2009 saw the festival lying fallow as the regular venue (the Bradford University Student Union) was being refurbished, and it is this reconstruction rather than the time away that has made 2010 feel so different to previous years.

I suppose it's a strange thing to comment on, but the older build of the venue was very distinctive, an open and relatively airy space that contrasted nicely with the somewhat claustrophobic beats and synths that are Infest's stock in trade. And after a number of years attending, the new layout is somewhat discomforting. Brightly lit pool table-strewn bars might make for a decent place to chill out and chat inbetween bands, but they definitely don't help when many people are relying on a little bit of low lighting to make their costumes look somewhat less ridiculous. More practically, whatever architect the university employed that decided that the main stage area should have access at the very front, a bar along the side and a cloakroom at the back should be taken out and flogged to death with lengths of brightly coloured wool and string.

This year I spent far more time catching up with old friends and meeting new ones, but I guess I might have some words to fling out there surrounding the actual bands, which is probably why you are spending your time reading this. I didn't see all of them because – well, because I didn't really want to. Critics have days off too, you know. So, then. A patchwork coverage of Infest 2010.

The first band I spent any time watching at all was De/Vision, who headlined the Friday evening. However, you really couldn't tell that I did watch them because I can remember almost nothing about them. A general sense of average and downbeat Depeche Mode-esque synthpop with no real hooks or melodic devices is all I get when I scavenge my brain for memories or rogue emotions.

Saturday was a little more productive for my nascent critical career, since I managed to catch three whole bands. Openers Northern Kind played synthpop of a different kind, with an altogether more mainstream feel and aesthetic. Female vocals, male synthchap. Again, nothing I hadn't seen in many bands before and a surprising lack of catchy melodies for a genre more or less based on such. Memmaker, by contrast, peddled a high octane hard dance with noise and industrial elements that was difficult to ignore. The duo leapt and spun around the stage with an infectious enthusiasm that is all too rare when seeing man/men-with-box style performances, and showed a distinct crossover potential. At times, what they were doing was not a million miles away from the likes of older Pendulum with a pleasantly glitchy Pow[D]Er Pussy spin. Enjoyable and popular material, though a guest vocal appearance from Jamie Blacker of ESA seemed something of a misfire. The final act I caught on Saturday was Agonoize, who were to these ears basically Suicide Commando with blood instead of straitjackets. They really didn't catch my attention at all. I suppose I am just getting tired of slightly gritty industrialised beats, high-pitched synthlines and screechy distorto-vocals. In the name of all that is electronic, please do something new with established sounds people.

Before I cover the final day, a word on the DJing. While for the most part the technical skills were excellent (only a couple of clunky mixes passed through my ears over an entire weekend, which is decent) and most of the DJs seemed to have very little problem filling a large floor, I am a little perturbed by the direction the festival (and scene as a whole) is going with its choices of dancefloor material. In short, if I want to go to a hard dance festival/club there are plenty around already. For a scene that uses the terms 'industrial' and 'EBM' and 'futurepop' a lot there is, and was, precious little on display of any. I know it isn't in vogue right now, but catering purely to the emergent demographic of listeners is a major sign of a scene about to either topple on its arse or evolve completely. It'd be sad if the non-raver contingent had to go elsewhere for their fix.

If you ask me (and since you are reading this, you effectively are) then Sunday was by far the best day for bands this year. My day opened by arriving at the venue just in time to see Concrete Lung and their blistering Godflesh-esque industrial metal assault. Bands with guitars are always welcome at Infest, largely because they provide a bit of a break from the rest of the lineup. But when they are as crushingly monolithic as these guys, well – that's a treat as well as a break. In a live setting the clean vocals don't gel as well as the shouting and growling, and while I'm as aggro-politico as the next guy bands denouncing the BNP and the English Defence League from stage has gotten a bit old for me these days. Having said that, there was at least some context with the latter having engaged in a mini-riot/parade with the police and protesters the day before – only around 2 miles from the venue.

Small complaints, and good to see as many cyberkiddies rushing off to buy their EP afterwards as there were fleeing from the stage as soon as a riff kicked in.

Shortly after came Patenbrigade: Wolff and their strange construction site/20^th century propaganda themed stage show. If you're having trouble picturing that, don't worry – so am I, and I was actually there. Men in safety helmets and orange jumpsuits, female singers coming onstage as sexy site managers, Weimar-era projections mixed with safety messages. It had the potential to distract from the melodic and mostly instrumental synthdustrial (just made that up, quite happy with it, probably already a genre somewhere) that was spilling out from the stage, but the material was strong enough to carry the act. Far more varied than the majority of Infest bands, this both helped and harmed. Short song lengths and variety are great attention-boosters, but also have the potential to drive you off if they suddenly switch to an unpleasant tack. It was the vocal-led synth ballad that did for me. Still, well worth checking out.

Ayria were mostly notable for the hyper-energetic stage presence of frontwoman Jennifer Parkin. She was bouncing around the stage and cheerleading the crowd so enthusiastically that, combined with the vibrant colours penetrating into my cortex from the stage and crowd, I felt like I was watching an entire season of Lazy Town on fast-forward. The music is dancefloor friendly electropop, and the audience reacted quite strongly to a singer who was actually interacting with them physically and speaking between songs. That might sound normal at any other festival, but I suppose when most of your acts both want to maintain a cool aloofness and don't have English as their mother tongue you pay a debt in stage banter. However, the music didn't do much for me. Both vocals and synths had a tendency to not move very far from a one-note standing point and I was left struggling to make out not just one song from another, but one section of a single song from another section. That's pretty critical when the music is trying to get me to bounce along with a big grin on my face. Still, top marks for effort.

The final band of the weekend I caught was Nachtmahr, and this might result in a bit of a ramble. The whole military fashion thing has been ongoing in the cybergoth scene for a few years now, and this act take it to an extreme with a retro costume and lyrical theme to complement the stompy march of their crunchy beats. Live they are both engaging and visually striking (the crowd reaction very similar to that of audiences viewing Combichrist a few years ago, making me wonder if Nachtmahr will follow down the same genre-dominating route), complete with military imagery-filled projections and pretty uniformed ladies standing to attention behind the rest of the band. I am aware that it is an aesthetic choice, and that the band distance themselves from any linked, unpleasant politics a casual observer might impose upon them.

And usually I would be the last guy in the world to be offended by any of this.

But for some reason, it all made me feel very uncomfortable. Maybe it was the aforementioned fascist-friendly rally that took place the previous day, close to the venue. Maybe it was the costumes being slightly too Hitler Youth. Maybe it was the N-emblazoned flags being waved by many of the fans. Maybe it was the slightly desperate proclamation from lead singer Thomas Rainer to reassure listeners that the band was Austrian, not German. Maybe it was the guy standing next to me in full replica Nazi uniform. Most likely it was all of these subtle cues on the wrong day.

Afterwards, speaking to fans I was told by a number of them that the aesthetic was ironic. Really? I was under the impression that a subtext or alternate meaning was required for irony in performance. If I wear a Ku Klux Klan outfit just because I think it looks great onstage, that isn't irony. At one point one of Nachtmahr's projections states "WAR IS NOT THE ANSWER", inbetween shots of bombing runs and rolling tanks. This would be alongside utilising imagery of said wars to gain fans and sell records. As far as I can tell, what they're saying is that war is not the answer but it is cool.

And that just ain't right.

One post-script, since I always comment on the actual mood and organisation of festivals – as per usual, the Infest team seemed to do a first rate job of pulling their annual cyberfun together. Clean, well-ordered, plenty of relevant facilities, a great atmosphere and tailored perfectly for the audience. Despite all my venue and musical grumbles I had an absolute blast for three days straight, so major kudos to all involved.