Articles by Joseph Norman
Watching Wylde play a guitar solo is like watching a starving person eat a steak or a perennially under-sexed person achieve orgasm . . . He doesn’t so much play the guitar as do guitar to you.
If you asked me what was going through my head whilst watching Anna von Hausswolff I could honestly tell you very little – I doubt there was a single person in this sold-out show who was not utterly transfixed from start to finish.
. . .Sometimes you need to get lost in the glorious anachronism and introspection of dungeon synth. So, to all those underground keyboard composers: venture forth from the catacombs and onto the stage. Or go see Mortiis and catch the master at work.
I saw Gene Simmons spitting blood on TV as a four-year-old kid, and I thought that was the best thing in the world. Then someone brought the first WASP album into our house circa 1984 . . . and I forgot all about KISS, and WASP was the shit for a while . . . I eventually found myself being engulfed by Tolkien, Occultism, Bathory, and Venom. . .
The result is her most deeply emotive, as well as conceptually and sonically coherent, work to date. Dead Magic is Anna Von Hauswolff’s darkest music yet – and the darkness suits her.
Ahead of their first EU headlining tour, Echoes & Dust spoke with Profanatica’s drum-marauder and filth-spreader Paul Ledney about video taping, the supernatural, and maniac festival fans.
Rather than marking a trend towards accessibility or conformity, ‘ION’ is Portal at their weirdest, their most excoriating and their most essential.
For all of his eclecticism and experimentation, it is Nils’ ability to play the piano with virtuosity and a sincere emotion that glues everything together.
It seems like they have found their distinctive musical voice, spoken amidst a hubbub of occult rock languages and we can look forward to hearing it tell further weird tales in the future.
Airbourne bound onto stage shortly following Brad Fiedel’s main theme from Terminator II . . . But as soon as the insanely catchy football-chant intro of ‘Ready to Rock’ strikes, and the crowd goes all World Cup on us, it’s clear there will be no time for dystopia or time travel paradoxes this evening, just mindless, upbeat hedonism.
Bag-obscured face, blank stony glare: a relaxed, suited everyman. Tall-ceilinged, oppressive room. Human, seated, watches the reaper beckon the faceless bagman’s reflection which waves. The monkey is out of the cage, and immortalized in stone. Akercocke’s songs reflect these unsettling juxtapositions. . .