Rise Above Records: Saturday

She'll sell you a rocking-horse

She'll sell you something too,
 probably more expensive

Next night, Purson were pleasing to behold, particularly the mellotron-synth and the hat, though the overall effect was marred by poor sound and guitar problems. Iron Man was certainly very large; although he said they had been playing doom for twenty years they sounded uncannily like Judas Priest without the twin guitars. There are worse things to sound like. Blood Ceremony were more advanced, without loosing a fundamental metallurgy, especially the bassist, the flute playing effectively the role of the lead guitar at the climaxes; though the vocals were a bit low and the set was oddly brief, especially if they had flown in from Canada. Melachi thinks someone might want to consider the set timings in future.

Rise Above Records Anniversary Festival: Friday

He was born a wicked man I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and hungry body, arriving at the Garage on 27 December must observe first of all that if this venue is going to run such a long show they should allow readmission or at least provide a few pizza slices as the masses cannot be expected to go without food from five to eleven. So returning later I saw the good three admirals Sir Cloudesley Shovell who seemed less dire than previously, the first few songs coming in with a Nice Crunch: perhaps they had some new material; though still degenerating eventually to a duller hard rock (in the manner of the King's X). Let us hope they hung around till the end to pick up some tips. I was puzzled by Horizont - and not only in the question of how to pronounce it. Sounding like a power metal band without the bombast, I wouldn't have thought them to fit well within this stable and I won't be looking for more from them. The band introducing themselves as the "Sharon Tate whatever" appeared hairy and hunching up and down on their mighty axeworks less diffidently than I had seen them before (as Uncle Acid) at this venue. They then delivered an extraordinary sequence of crushing yet bouncy riff anthems as though choosing from a twenty year hit catalogue, while the great unwashed flailed their heads in awesome rapture like the Jews at the wailing wall. And though there was no transfiguration on this occasion, Melachi feels the possibility cannot be excluded in future.

Among the Russians

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body,  did read Colin Thubron's book Among the Russians, which details his camping trip by car across the western Soviet Union around 1982. Quite a curious thing to do at any time, though. He gives pleasing accounts of the sights and journey, which are most interesting in the Caucasus. The locals he meets are strangely similar: morose, inquisitive, drunk and oddly blank. It would not be fascinating to find out what has happened to them since. I wonder if these traits appertain less to Soviet Man than to those who approach foreigners on campsites. The author draws no conclusions, and remains an enigma, as do even his car and camping equipment,not unlike the sphinx he observes.

Black Sabbath and Uncle Acid

Acid Experience

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did attend the gig of Black Sabbath and Uncle Acid and the Deadbeats at the 02 Arena, North Greenwich, on 10 December 2013. Many were present for Uncle Acid, and quite a few actually sat or stood and listened to them. In the Grand Scheme of things, maybe they are in fact better than the headliners, but at present all their songs have a very similar grind. Black Sabbath started with the most exposed and out of tune vocals I have ever heard (although I have heard Ozzy before) but improved a few songs in from Snowblind onwards.

Girl with a view

So either they turned up his monitors or switched on a tape; I do not think the latter as Children of the Grave towards the end was terrible as well. He also seemed to have trouble reading the autocue on the new songs. The guitars were magnificent though the acoustics were not great. The drummer was enthusiastic but in a metallic rather than bluesy way. I do not think this could be described as a particularly good concert, though the experience from the front of the floor may have been effectively visceral. But these are the words of Melachi, among the gods.

Braquo series 2

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did watch the second series of this very violent French detective drama, on bluray discs, and I am not sure my mind was improved by the watching. Large sections of this series could be taken directly from a horror film, particularly the numerous torture sequences. The plot revolves around numerous criminal gangs and police factions seeking gold and weaponry in Paris, is in parts ludicrous, and at all times extremely difficult to follow. This is not aided by most of the characters being similarly dark, greasy, unshaven, and wearing black leather jackets. And that is just the women. Buried in here somewhere is quite a good  story about a colonel seeking revenge on those who betrayed his soldiers in Angola. Any sympathy for him is countered by the tendency of his men to shoot any civilian bystander in the way. Compared to Spirals, the other recent French detective drama, the characters are here far less engaging, and the ambience is much more brutal, though the writing is better. Rather an ordeal than a pleasure then, though appealing to those who like this sort of thing, or wish to brush up on their French obscenities.

Ghost: Infestissumam

I have listened to this album quite a few times now. It is not as good as their first; in particular it makes excessive use of minor key semitone slides which gives it a congested tone when the songs are heard consecutively. A couple of tracks make passable singalongs, particularly "Monstrance clock". Creepiest lyrics and chorus I have heard for ages are on "Body and Blood".  Zombie Queen to me sounds cobbled together and Secular Haze plain silly. The problem with vocals and tunes that can actually be heard is that they have to be correspondingly good to attract a repeat listen, and I am not sure how much more this will spin. Acoustically sounds fine to me, at least on red vinyl; bass could be a bit louder, maybe.

Jex Silhouettes

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did attend the gig of Jex Toth and Dead Letter at The Black Heart in Camden, London, on 9 November 2013. The Dead Letter played a stripped down singer-guitar with light drums; pleasant, gloomy and slightly liturgical. The vocals sounded exceptionally clear, so congratulations to the sound desk. I did not actually see much of the Jex, since they do not much like lights, and there is not really an actual stage at that venue, though I caught glimpses of candles and incensing sticks. A soapbox would be a useful addition. The music did sound much heavier than on record, here and theno approaching true doom metal majesty, although the bass was at times painfully out of tune. They did not address the People, there in number and in black, doubtlessly rapt in seance. There is a dirge quality to the performance, even the encores, and a few more foot-stomping numbers would be greatly welcomed, by Melachi at any rate..

Sweltering, Imperial Nile

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did attend the gig of Svart, Ex Deo and Nile, on 10 September 2013, at the Garage, Islington, London.

The band Svart were French but seemed a little untight in tempo for my taste. Many were there to see Ex Deo, who provided a traditional, gutteral, melodic deathish metal, pleasing if unexceptional. There were some neat martial horn themes in the mix. I could not hear the lyrics well but think they were mainly about the Roman army at war. Obviously very disappointing for general effect that they were not in Latin.  Only the singer was in Roman attire.

A most satisfactory visit from the eagles, then; Nile themselves began with no sound in the bass and no fancy dress at all. Their music was more brutal, faster, technical, and difficult to follow. It is at best character-building to listen to a death metal CD all the way through, and likewise this was a set I did not feel ended too soon. Plus, the Garage was extremely hot. So signs off Melachi, by a sweltering Nile!

Battlestar Galactica

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did watch the complete 5 series of Battlestar Galactica, beginning with "33" and ending with "The original mini-series", on Blu-ray disc, instead of Newsnight, finishing in August 2013. I had not previously seen any of the episodes, but began, being advised it was one of the great achievements of television. This may not strictly be correct, because I suppose one would have to include things like "Roots", and the moon landing. But I would say it is the best set of series I have watched. Now, the first series had rather too much of the whining Dr Balthar, and long sections of a group running around on a planet which did not seem to have much to do with anything. I generally found the President annoying and giving the impression of being heavily sedated. In the next series it got better, and finest episodes were the ones involving the Pegasus. There was a lengthy and dull plot arc about people being married to the wrong people. I much preferred the fighting scenes. Likewise, as the final series progressed, and more were revealed as the enemy, it became a little bleaker and depressive. Starbuck was certainly more watchable before she developed her "special destiny". The anchoring presence was the great Commander Adama, and I might watch it all again as a study in his leadership. Very notable as well was the style of the ship - the incessant heavy drinking, intercom telephones with chords, and even open reel tape recorders. I now understand I have to watch "Caprica", "The Plan", "Blood and Chrome", and then something called "Star Trek". Such is the (not very special) destiny of Melachi!

The German Ideology

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being a man of wealth and taste, did read Marx and Engels' The German Ideology (1846), or at least as much of it as is provided in C.J. Arthur's student edition of 1970. In it the authors present the view that the ideologies of an historical period are closely linked to its productive processes, though the relationship seems reciprocal to some degree. These ideologies do, however, become treated as though they are inevitable entities in their own right. Therefore men are alienated from the natural relationships between them, and from the true conditions of their labour. This seems obvious nowadays, but was clearly less so in the mid-nineteenth century. The prose is the usual mixture of the extraordinarily impenetrable peppered with brilliant aphorisms. I did not quite understand the emphasis given on "classes" in the creation of ideologies, except as a necessary precursor for Communism. Furthermore, it is not clear to me what the nature of man would be lacking these controlling ideologies, i.e. either before the division of labour, or after the establishment of Communism. Doubtless more could be written on these topics.... But this is a very interesting, though somewhat difficult,text.

EHG fuzz

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did attend the gig of EyeHateGod (also known, I understand, as EHG), at the Garage, in London on 3 August. There were a fourpiece in black and a man in a blue T-shirt from New Orleans. I wanted to like these guys, as I heard they were a top doomy sludgy band, but I found it difficult to get down to my groove with their odd tempo changes from slow to slightly faster at random intervals, and lack of a nice clear riffing. In fact, they approached the same random fuzziness as Moss, whom I heard a few months ago, though not in such an extreme way. However, due to the density of patrons near the bar, I was entirely sober throughout the whole gig, which may have taken the edge off a little. Maybe I will listen to some of their records and go back another time. These are the decisive words of Melachi!

Call me Edmund: Farewell Symphony

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did read Edmund White's book "The Farewell Symphony" (1997), since I liked the title, finishing it in August 2013. It is the story of a man whose main if not only interest throughout the 1960s-80s appears to be other men, and in large numbers. The author never uses one word when he can compose a nicely balanced paragraph instead, and appears greatly concerned with surface effect, referring to high art, philosophy, foreign languages and cultures as though wandering through a great museum, examining the paintings, identifying their schools, and then forgetting them. Like an American who has just completed a Western Civilization course, in fact. There is, to my mind, little depth of philosophy or even psychology. It is hard to imagine so many people can have lived such disassociated lives. As a consequence, there is no plot and not much intentional structure, and the sections about Italy and Paris should have been left out. There is one joke, on page 5 (of 504), though it is quite a good one. They all die at the end, in rather few pages, and this is quite sad, like Moby Dick.

Capa: Pressing the Button

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did read Blood and Champagne (2002), by Alex Kershaw, a biography of the war photographer Robert Capa. I found it on a charity table in the medieval barn at Coggeshall.  The story told is also eventful enough. Capa was always gambling, drinking, picking up women, or trying to get his head blown off, which he finally did. The book does not contain a single one of his photos, even those which are discussed, which is rather an omission. I will have to get another book with them, I suppose. There is not much technical analysis of his work, though I deduce from comments here and there that he basically got as close as possible and pressed the button. There are no cats in the book. The writing and references are workmanlike; some of the Hungarian names are wrong and he has an odd habit of referring to Hungarian Jews as "Slavic". But I found it a good little read.

Upstairs, downstairs, Surya

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did attend the gig of  Martyr Defiled, We Die Tonight, I'll Stay In Memphis, Black Polaris and Beneath The Wake at the Surya Club, near Islington, London, on 22 June, 2013. The stage is downstairs, and the bar upstairs.  The bands themselves were distinctly hardcore but the sound quality was oddly good. A few dozen studenty people were there, who disappeared upstairs after each band. Eventually I followed to see what was going on. No-one seemed to be drinking very much (at £4 a can), in fact, they were mainly staring at mobile phones. A bit bored, I had the bright idea of staring at my own mobile phone. To my surprise (after six years of ownership) I found there were several games on it, including one about owning a nightclub, though I could not understand the rules.

 "We Die Tonight" were my favourite performers, mainly due to the singer, who did the high and the guttural notes well. The Martyr themselves were fearsomely aggressive, and inspired some hardcore dancing (with karate kick moves), though not from me. I took this picture of one of the earlier groups, I'm not sure who, but then ran out of film. Such is the lot of Melachi.

Das Download 2013

Nu Metal

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did attend the Download Festival in June 2013. It was not as wet as last year, though a little cold in a tent in the night, being on my own, and with some showers, though warm on Sunday. For Melachi, the festival is a bit of a health farm, as it is difficult to get anything to drink. Other than beer, which barely counts. Anyway, the line-up on paper did not look as interesting as the previous year, having a nu-metal flavour, which I mainly avoided; naturally, I had not previously seen Slip

Old Metal

knot, though I have one of their albums I do not much like. But their show was very impressive and the singer oddly charismatic for someone in a mask. I did not quite follow the point of the strange clown, but if a blank-eyed fellow comes up to me in a bar and says "five, five, five", I now know how to reply! I had not heard anything previously by Bullet for my Valentine, but they played a fine hard rock with striking guitars. Katatonia did their gloomy stuff, followed by Karnivool, strangely similar but with higher sung notes.  Motorhead were unimpressive, badly needing an additional guitarist, and only warming up the crowd in their last two songs. I am not sure why he kept saying they were a rock and roll band, when he then proceeded to play what was obviously heavy metal, or at least very heavy rock; has he not heard Buddy Holly? Iron Maiden had the most striking opening, with the Spitfire flying above, and gave excellent though unimaginative renditions of their hits from the Seventh Son tour; though if they are playing the same set again in London in August I do not think I will run to see it.

Back through time

Back of Turisas tent

A heavy but short set was from Amon Amarth, complete with Viking boat, I will look for a full show from them somewhere. In similar vein, I and many others more dedicated than me could not get into or hear much from the Turisas tent, which was jammed.
 Ghost performed a fine "ritual", and let us respect musicians who can provoke the idle youth to chant in Latin, though the grammar of "ad inferi" worries me, as does the otherwise trouble-free being encouraged to sing "Hail Satan" in broad daylight. It would be brave of them to reference some religion other than the long-suffering Catholics... Uncle Acid and the Deadbeats played unfashionably crushing riffs in the moshing tent, though the only high smoker was man-

Hog Roast

handled out by numerous security. They were followed by Chthonic, with half a dozen Chinese traditional musicians who could just about be heard, as the bass was overblown, though the bassist herself, many remarked, should not be replaced. Most enthusiastic band were Falling with Style with a mad surfing of non-crowds.

And Bauhaus

The best live band was, of course, Rammstein, coupling high concept with great style, crushing themes and pyrotechnics. Though hampered on this occasion by relatively few knowing their lyrics, and even fewer understanding them. Unlike myself, of course; indeed I, Melachi, wearing as usual a mask at these events, in extreme crush had it torn off in their pit, and I retired to the relative rear, after collapsing and missing a few of their numbers. But thereafter I could see rather better, and particularly remember their magnificent burning square cross. Alles gut fur dieses metal Jahr, denn.

Leonskaya

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being a man of wealth and taste, did attend the recital of E. Leonskaya at the Queen Elizabeth Hall, London, on 5 June 2013. She played Ravel, Debussy and Brahms. I went as I had heard she had played with Richter. She was very decisive in her performance, with the loud sections rather loud, though without the brightness of an Ashkenazy, and the quiet sections lacking the pellucid quietude and magnetism one might prefer. The piano seemed rather distorted as though it might buzz at some points in the complex chords, and quite loud too; even from the back of the hall. There were a few pleasant encores. I had the impression this was a "they write it, I play it" pianist, but none the worse for that.

Bravo Magician

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did attend the gig of Black Magician, Mourning Beloved and Prophecy at the upstairs room of the Garage, Islington, on 1 June 2013. The audience included many bearded longhairs, and a rock chick with Judas Priest T-shirt and headscarfe, which is promising. I recall that the Prophecy were good, with an impressively versatile vocalist, but I do not remember much else about them. The Black Magician seemed more focused than I had seen them earlier at the Underground, though this may simply have been because this room was rather longer with the stage at the end, so it is easier to concentrate on it. They struck me again as very atmospheric, due to the synthesizer, and heavy in the traditional vein. I am looking for a vinyl of their album. Mourning Beloved emitted a thoroughly doomladen sound, very heavy though less atmospheric, thought Melachi.

Piscine Professor

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did attend the gig of Fish and Lu Cosma at the Academy, Islington, on 29 May 2013. The support was a lady singer and a somewhat acoustic guitar playing to backing tracks. Never have I been so humiliated as having to listen to this, though may have been OK in a golf club bar. The Fischmeister General  entered the stage, with elegant glasses, rather more subdued than I had seen him before, without visible tattoos, reading his lyrics from a lecturn. His voice in the low register was strong and firm; the high register is gone completely. He played much from his new album, which, if I understood him correctly, is still unrecorded. It sounded good, but not great; the music unprepossessing except as backing chords for a slow rapping with lyrics gloomy even by his depressive standards, particularly a long song suite about the western front, though lacking their former sparkle.  Some old standards were played (the Script for Tears, He Knows You Know, Assassin) in a very low register. Even the guitar solos seemed oddly low and ineffective; they could surely be rewritten to be more striking. There was much fishy banter eventually, and it ended on a not unpleasing medley. In all, he rests not on his laurels, and this was a brave and interesting performance. He said he was ex-Marillion, and the Game was Over. Not quite, thinks Melachi.  .

Pursuing Purson

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did attend the gig of Moss, Purson and Black Magician at the Underworld, Camden, on 15 May 2013. The first band played a slowish crushing processional metal with high synths and rhythmic vocals coupled with guitar solos so detuned they might have been on a bass. This was well worth a listen. The second band, Purson, I had managed to see twice before without knowing their name or even that they were the same band. Ever observant, on this occasion I thought they were much tighter, although they said they had a new bassist, who seemed oddly familiar. I could not quite put my finger on the source of their cleverly proggish argeggiated accents which sounded a little like Yes or Magenta, coupled with sixth form lyrics and a seventies romance vibe. Perhaps there is some deep source, or possibly they are a true original. The songs seemed a little fussy for short numbers, though I think one in the middle had a long guitar wha-wha section which was quite effective and seemed to relax things more. Ones to watch, then. The final band, Moss, were a singer, a drummer and a guitarist.The guitarist played chords rather than riffs, and rather slowly and loudly. Even more minimalist than Om, these were for true fuzzheads only.

Turk unpossessed

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did read Elif Batuman's "The Possessed: Adventures with Russian Books and the People Who Read Them" in April 2012. The book gives an account of her travels, acquaintances and readings while enrolled on a postgraduate course on literature and languages in California. If that sounds a little odd, well so is the book, ranging from Stanford to Turkey to Uzbekistan and Saint Petersburg. Now, the central question, or joke, of the book is posed on page 57: "As a six-foot-tall first generation Turkish woman growing up in New Jersey, I cannot possibly know as much about alienation as you, a short American Jew." I, Melachi, have not read as much Russian literature as Ms Batuman, but have slept with more Russian women than her. Or so one imagines. But why, in short, would anyone care what I, or Elif Batuman, has to say about Russian literature? Perhaps cognizant of the answer to this, we are instead treated to the tragi-comic travails of jetsetting academics, in the manner of  a David Lodge. Oddly, the narrator does not seem at all possessed -- she will go anywhere and do anything, providing she can get a grant. I assume there is some real scholarship going on as well, though, perhaps mercifully, we are spared this. As a travelogue with a linguistic bent it is interesting in parts, though rather haphazard. There are no cats in the book. There is a long section at the end about mimeticism involving a summary of the entire plot of "The Possessed" (the Russian novel, already rather well-known, I would have thought), the characters of which she seems to compare to those of her classmates, which I did not quite get.

But the strange thing about the book lies in the writing style. Just as the academics are portrayed as obsessed by their topics, when they clearly are not, the chapters are littered with bizarre statements that look as though they might be clever or amusing, but in fact are just strange. It is as though the text were translated from a Turkish original full of untranslatable wordplay. The style is so remorseless that it develops an horrific charm of its own.  "I didn't care about truth; I cared about beauty. It took me many years -- it took the experience of lived time -- to realize that they really are the same thing." (p.10). Quite. "[they] disinfected and bandaged his knee in a visibly efficient fashion." (p. 14). Not invisibly? And this splendid non-sequitur, on which I pondered deeply: "He had been chased several kilometers cross-country by a wild dog. He must be the kind of man who likes women, I remember thinking." (p.15). And: "'little feet'... Pushkin is not here referring... to his own feet. Nonetheless, I saw a pair of Pushkin's boots once in a museum, and they were very small." (p.89). "The gypsy looked at my palm and told me to beware of a woman called Mary ." (p. 91). Mary? "In Moscow, for the first and last  [last?] time in my life, I dated bankers. Things didn't work out with the first banker [pray tell, perhaps?], but I still remember the second banker fondly... Rustem was saving up money to pay for parachuting lessons." (p. 93). Melachi does not know why Rustem wanted such lessons, but one suspects, and cannot blame him.

Chasing the Greene

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did read Tim Butcher's Chasing the Devil, on the beach in Cuba in April 2013, having previously read his book about the Congo (in preparation for my forthcoming trip across Africa). Chasing the Devil deals with a long walk through the forest in Liberia. In short, he takes a bus to a forest, and walks each day along forest tracks to the next village, accompanied by a young man from Oxford and a local guide, while another guide takes his luggage there by motorbike on a normal road. Why does Mr Butcher do this? Well, he is following the footsteps of a certain Graham Greene, and he also says he feels he should spend more time in Liberia because he did not return to it when there was a war on. Or something like that. Now, I know nothing about this Graham Greene other than what I can derive from Mr Butcher's book, namely that he was a towering figure of 20th century English literature (which I rather doubt, or I or someone I know would surely have read something by him), that he liked seediness (no interesting evidence of this is given), and that he worked for British Intelligence, but later (though one suspects this was only because they were short of staff during the war). In all, I am not convinced that Mr Greene's trip in the 1930s is much more worthy than Mr Butcher's in the 2000s. The structural flaw of the book, compared to his Blood River, is this general pointlessness. The author seems worrying well connected, and the problems he encounters are of his own making. Anyway, in the course of his very readable account he gives a history of the region and its people, and this is certainly more interesting than reading roughly the same stuff in any guidebook.  He is again struck by the penchant of the Africans to fail to develop, even when not colonised, and he tentatively ascribes this to the tendency of tribalism to move at the pace of its slowest member. Maybe. But I liked this book, though I think I would have preferred a Willard Price adventure.

Playa Costa Verde, Holguin, Cuba

Girls earlier seen smoking

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being a man of wealth and taste, did spend a couple of weeks at the Playa Costa Verde, an all-inclusive resort in Eastern Cuba. The room was of good size with safe, hairdrier, iron and fridge with daily water bottle. There was plenty of food of some variety though none of it would satisfy someone with gourmet pretensions. There were 3 free speciality restaurants which were OK. The service at all points was good and the staff were friendly and liked to talk. This meant that they tended not to be terribly fast. They were happy to receive tips of 1 or 2 pesos but did not press for them. I understand they share them with senior and back office staff. The tours were quite nice, though the tour to Santiago was probably too far for a day trip, particularly when the coach got stuck behind tractors on the way back.

Maggie (guide) with our ration book

The stage and nightclub were well appointed, and the stage performances better than one might expect of rural Cuba. The most beautiful dancer was Lily.  The guests were mainly Canadian, English and German. There were a few children but they were quite well behaved. There were few people in the nightclub or in the bar late, most being couples or families, though I did run into a bored Canadian sommelier. There were two cats, a black one by the pool bar and a tabby one by the buffet, neither very friendly nor hungry. The beach was beautiful, with included recliners and beach bar. Speaking of which, there is nothing in the area outside of the resorts and, so far as I could establish, no way to meet normal Cubans or local nightlife. The nearest town (Holguin) is an hour's drive away, and there is no public transport to mention. Though walk far enough down the beach and you may find a river guarded by Roberto, who may suggest you donate a peso for his baby. Points that might be fixed include the toilet working with a curious pressure system and either not at all or continuously from time to time. The animation team were rather less visible than in other resorts. I would say this is a good choice for an inexpensive quiet week's break. Unfortunately, I was there for two.

Acid Tea Pot

The Good Admiral

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, did attend the concert of Uncle Acid and the Deadbeats and The Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell, at the Garage, Islington, London, on 23 March 2013. The Good Admiral played again their 3-pieced traditional heavy rock, sounding rather murky; not very interesting to my mind, (but again not forgetting Respect to the Sideburns).

Don't ask me

Uncle Acid and Co. came on stage, a mysterious bunch, indeed, surrounded by mirrors and cracking TVs, they did not see fit to turn on the stage lights the entire time.

A moment of brilliance

 The guitars were not at all murky, but the vocals were a little low to start with. Their grooving and riffage was strikingly clear from the first notes, sounding much heavier than the album. Aye to the privilege to have been in the presence of such brilliance, so early in its genesis. Nay, that they played for only about an hour.

Ibis off Grand Place, Brussels, in spirit at least

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did stay at the Ibis off Grand Place, Brussels, in February 2013. The reception clerk was quite well dressed and kindly offered to speak to me in English, even though I naturally addressed him in perfectly fluent and accurate French. The tariff was not at all cheap, so I was disappointed to find that the lift, which promised to function on the insertion of my key card, did not do so, though I tried many times. Apparently, it has to be entered just so, and might then work. The lift was rather small, and, in the course of my two night stay, caused some embarrassment whenever breasted females entered. I should also like to remark on the music played in the lift, which was throughout, I believe, a sort of seventies soul. So with anticipation I reached my room, which was rather small, though perfectly clean. Had a companion joined me, breasted or otherwise, it would have been too small, indeed it would have been difficult to unpack one suitcase, let alone two. Fortunately, I, Melachi, travel light, with just a small backpack. There was no door to the wardrobe, for there would have been no room for it to open, and the television was not of the widescreen variety, though did show the first and second BBC channels. The bed was comfortable and the sheets fresh. A placard announced that the calm sleep of the guests was their first priority. However, I could hear the quiet conversation of the guests next door, through a locked but connecting door, and subsequently a snoring. The bathroom was rather small as well, and the cistern was of possibly the cheapest, plasticy variety available, though did work, but certain watery areas remained in its vicinity and did not seem to dry off. There was a bath and shower, though no soap, except in squeezy bottles attached to the walls. The bath was rather small, indeed one needed to curl up in the manner of a peat bog man to relax in the waters. The tiles were clean, with just a few dark spots. The breakfast was of a standard continental buffet variety, including some fruit, though served with a common tray. The second day, the pain au chocolat had run out. The coffee was from an unattended machine -- I would have preferred hand drawn espresso or at least a nice filter variety. The staff said hello, but not much else. They were kind enough to enroll me in their frequent hotel-using programme; but I do not think that I, Melachi, will frequently be using their hotels.

Orange Slab of Goblin

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, did attend the gig of Orange Goblin, The Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell, and the Earls of Mars, at the Academy, Islington on 15 February 2013. The Earl/s of Mars were very interesting and somewhat progressive to listen to, with a notable keyboardist playing solos, and an electric double bass. They could have played a little longer. The Magnificent Name of the Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell cannot be doubted, indeed a few weeks previous I almost picked up their CD on the strength of that alone; fortunately I did not, since their music was a sort of loud three-piece rhythm and blues, though Respect To The Sideburns. The Orange Goblin laid down what can best be described as a great, solid, steaming slab of metal, like a not so fast and slightly more melodic motorhead, and without perturbaition; Melachi finds it difficult to comment more, other than to remark at the bravery of those teenagers who remained in the pit following the advance of the balding, topless, ex-military!

Sold on Devil Chimp

A Chimpspanner

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did attend the gig of Sylosis, Devil Sold His Soul and Chimpspanner, at the Academy Islington, London, on 24 January 2013. When Chimpspanner started I groaned, as they appeared to be a vocal-less 3 piece playing jazz fusion, but after a while a deep metallism came through, matched by great and well-structured virtuosity, without any pointless guitar solos. But probably half an hour of this was enough, as it is difficult to concentrate on a band without a lead and obvious themes for much longer than that. Nevertheless, excellent supporting material.

He sold his soul

Next Devil Sold His Soul, the singer giving a fine appearance of a chimp, leaping and screaming. Initially again I was not impressed, but gradually began to remark the strange slowness of many of the songs and the frequent almost processional passages, as though he were shouting incantations, against a funereal beat with swirling synthesizers, also with no guitar leads, despite numerous guitarists. Though I have no idea was he was screaming about. Won over, I picked up their CD next day at HMV. But I think the repetitive sections would benefit from more sophisticated modulation. Some of the "clean" vocals were painfully out of tune.

Sylosis and shorthairs

Sylosis played for a bit under an hour and a half, the sound quality was excellent and the vocals were much stronger than I heard previously, and the guitars seemed this time in tune throughout. The material from their new album seemed more aggressive but with less of an epic quality than the rest. Curiously some resembled the folk metal bands, more like a jig, I suppose this follows from playing complex figures quickly. All in all, I, Melachi, found this a most satisfactory evening.

No pain (au chocolat)

View in cracked mirror

I, Melachi ibn Amillar, being of unsound mind and body, did stay at the Mirabeau hotel, Brussels, in January 2013. The hotel is located in a sort of gay Arabic district on the grimy boulevard to the Gare Midi, though next to the tram stop; in all a location probably not recommended for those of nervous disposition. Presenting my booking, the clerk gave no signs of recognising it, and asked for payment in advance, though he did take a credit card. I climbed the steps to the fifth floor, rather a mistake since the intermediate floors seemed under construction with wires hanging from the walls and lights in the very narrow stairwells going on and off intermittently. The room itself was small but acceptable, and appeared recently refurbished, though the mirror had a long crack, and the flush required judicious fiddling with the cracked button-panel to stop it running continuously.
There was no bath but the shower worked. The TV channels were all in foreign languages; the beer glasses were a thin plastic. The room was not very warm, though the heating was set to maximum; there was snow on the ground outside, which may explain this. I was woken at 4am by drunken people shouting from the street below, shortly followed by rubbish collecting vans, and did not get much more sleep. Descending for breakfast I found that the elevator did in fact work, it was just that the summoning light did not illuminate. For breakfast there was self-service with several pieces of not terribly fresh bread, one type of cheese and small packages of jam, with coffee and tea. There were no croissants or pain au chocolats. But for that, I would stay again, at least during the financial crisis.