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: 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.)