Friday
The first band I catch on Friday on the PX3 stage is Blessings from Sweden—think High on Fire—slowly unravelling and delightfully distorted, as if playing on the wrong record setting. While from the Gothenburg scene, this is not your typical Swedish death metal. There is a whole lot going on here with intriguing layers of oscillating guitars, drenched in feedback and roaring vocals that brittle with anger and despair. Careening and trudging in between Converge style hardcore post rock and sludgy passages, and they are really quite something, we are doing well for new discoveries this weekend!
Bristol’s No Violet, on the Bixler Stagem, features a reappearance from Sans Froid backing vocalist Ellie Goodwin. They are grungy, deliciously dirty and dissonant with the indie eccentricity of the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s and a doomy, rumbling bassline. Bluesy cacophonic build-ups remind me of Royal Thunder alongside the experimentally diverse, piercing and whispering and yowling vocals that cut through,and add to the chaos.
The Swiss quartet Zatokrev have been creating unique and gargantuan tapestries of sound since 2004, flirting with esoteric folk and worldly sounds in a genre blending swirling spacey and psychedelic Ufomammut-meets-Yob style. Howls soar over a crushing dissonant and dynamic background that is filled with intricate layers and textures of a myriad of meandering guitar effects and hypnotic drumming. They offer ambient moments, with gentle rhythms, synths, and clean singing at the eye of each storm of devastation. Though they have to overcome some sound issues, they arise triumphant to drag the transfixed main stage crowd on a trippy journey, sludgy, doomy post-, and hell, even death and black metal (at times), a miasmic and transcending landscape. Wow.
Over on the Yokhai, the enticingly exploratory Berlin-based trio Zahn collide noise, kraut, post-metal, and math rock in a John Carpenter-esque pulsing, cinematic soundscape of rhythms. Another solid and dynamic discovery of the weekend, Zahn are almost ambient compared to the mighty Conjurer, who do not need magic to conjure a massive crowd to the main stage, just their brutalizing sound and skyrocketing reputation. That sound has progressed over the years, and been refined and developed to reach this moment of dynamic swirling fury. Glistening metallic edged hardcore is ramped up, yanked around in an ebbing and flowing tycoon of visceral sludgy doom with a psychedelic edge. The frantic music is matched by the audience losing their shit, both outside and in the pit, all with a heartfelt ode to trans rights and raging hatred for billionaires. After watching the obliterated man crowd stream out the tent, I find myself wishing I’d dragged my decrepit bones further in to witness the carnage.
Unfortunately, after a break back at the tent, a torrential downpour means opting to stay warm, dry, and fed, and therefore missing Believe in Nothing and Heck followed by a bit of Lili Refrain. Another regret after hearing the enthused feedback for all three, but I am grateful to return dry and refreshed to continue on the gargantuanly heavy theme with the two piece Kulk. Despite being an adorable couple, Kulk lay waste to the PX3 with a sickeningly sludgy set of bone crunching and groovy bass amid a flurry of formidable drums, gnarly anguished vocals with relentlessly fuzzy and droning, and Sleep style feedback. There are lots of industrial elements in the pulverizing mix as a staunchly punk vibe. Unfortunately, the sound is a little muddy, but the performance is top notch, and it is an emotional, slowed down and poignant finish when IAN cellist Asprey joins in with a sorrowful tribute to a fallen comrade
Next are the ambient but powerful Pennsylvanian group Nothing who offer up an atmospheric post-rock set of both mellow ambiance with beautiful dual harmonies and loud reverb that resonates throughout the Yokhai, made even more resounding when the crowd are encouraged to chant “Free Palestine!”
The French synthwave artist James Kent AKA Perturbator is a refreshing and energizing reprieve from the devastation. Kent gets the party started—heavy in an upbeat and devilishly deviant way—with the unforgiving track “Apocalypse Now” which was released last year and features vocals from Ulver’s Kristoffer Rygg. From the edge of the tent, the setting sun is visible combined with purple lights which flash to the seductive pulsing beat of gothic synthwave. It is evocative of many of the cheesy synthwave album covers and feels like a perfect moment. It is a brilliant set, mixing new and old crowd pleasers and ending with “Tainted Empire.” As the sun disappears, so do I, diving into the crowd to let myself go to the infectious, throbbing beats.
The Yokhai tent is rammed for grindcore overlords Napalm Death, and they sound sick, but having lost count of how many times I have seen them, it is not so hard of a decision to head out and catch some of the instrumental, French quartet BRUIT before heading in for a decent spot for Primus. What I do see of BRUIT makes me sad that it is so little. They artfully combine post rock with classical music playing explorative and moving orchestral arrangements, building in tempo and dynamics to dizzying crescendos as well as layers of strings, drums, and synths with some spoken word to a backdrop of bleak dystopian themes. In the short time I watch their cinematic performance, they descend from waves of ethereal heights with electronic elements, crashing onto dirgey, bassy, ominous depths, all with an urgent, despairing, and anxious focus on world issues, and political morality, or lack thereof.
As eccentric as they are mighty, the thirty-year-old Primus lurch and glide through a twangy, country style, bass driven and proggy set of a variety of old and new tracks .The inimitable bass slapping vocalist Les Claypool quips, “This is going to be way better than the Brixton show, but that might be ‘cos I’m drunk.” And while I was not there to compare notes, it is indeed a bombastic blinder of a show. They open with “Those Damned Blue-Collar Tweekers” and the place erupts. It keeps erupting, as they slap through several twangy and discombobulated chaotic but tight classics, including “Winona’s Big Brown Beaver” ( which we all lose our minds for) and “John The Fisherman.”
Such an upbeat, silly, and tongue-in-cheek reprieve from all the seriousness, some of the raucous, laddish daytrippers are a bit disconcerting, but the band themselves are fantastic. Claypool’s idiosyncratic signature bass playing is exemplary, as is the ridiculousness of his onstage presence. They finish with epic crowd pleasers “My Name Is Mud” and “Jerry Was a Race Car Driver,” and boy is the crowd pleased, head bopping, moshing, and singing along with beaming grins. Overall it is quite a (welcome) departure from the general theme of catharsis I tend to go for. It is my first time witnessing these legends, and what a delightful and crazy fun experience.
Saturday
The collaboration of Jo Quail and the Crossbone Orchestra with Tom Atherton are the first act I manage to catch on the last day, and what an act to start the day with. The setup features four trombonists and a percussionist (Atherton) and is not quite as heavy as her usual repertoire, but is still stunning and fitting, just in a very sophisticated concert kind of way. Haunting, electric cello solos are looped and woven with pedal effects, joined by thumping bass drum and crescendos of the trombone quartet. In each moment of contemplation between tracks, Quail educates us on the meaning behind “Rex,” stating it is “from the first album, a rare privilege to play.” “First Rain” is a “piano piece which she plays as a solo on cello.” Then comes “Kingfisher,” which she tells us portrays “the fact we are all connected by invisible spider thread, and as we meet and greet, a great tapestry is woven.” That results in more than a few tears, it is a piece focused on the trombonists, and the resonance of all four in unison is so bassy it is evocative of a string quartet. Bravo!
Oathbreaker are jaw-dropping from the start and here to play the stalwart album Rheia in full, even if it means playing over time and being cut off. From the very first note, “10.56” showcases Caro Tange’s raw vocals in fragile vulnerability before the swirling miasma of “Second Son of R” has her shrieking and wailing like a banshee amid a black metal backdrop of blast beats and scorching guitar. There are moments of quiet contemplation in the eye of the storm and the high octane vocals are barely audible, and possibly a little lost in the complex mix. Then the storm rages on, gathering strength through an emotional and turbulent affair, which culminates in a complete breakdown with finale “Begeerte.” This is so poignant it could pierce right through to the soul. I am not the only one in bits, and it goes to show not just how powerful music can be, but how ArcTanGent can also be a place of safety for those on a healing journey.
There is not a lot of time for self composure before heading over to the Bixler to see solo artist Jain Mahyvn aka Darkher. He is another pleasant surprise and an utterly enchanting and intimate one at that. Haunting, ambient but atmospheric, doom/ folk witchy ballads that slowly creep out like smoke to engulf the tent in a dark spell, and the crowd—including yours truly—is enraptured. The dismal beauty is transcendental yet subtle and there are more than a few moments where her high pitch wails are akin to Chelsea Wolfe and other songs remind me of Messa. A solitary but almost surprisingly powerful, fierce and endearing woman with fiery hair, endearing vocals and spooky, yet soothing, delicate yet doomy looping layered effect laden guitar. Absolutely sensational, one woman wonder. Dark, dismal, dissonant, yet a soothing balm for the soul.
On the way to Din of Celestial Birds, my attention is drawn to the Converge-like chaos emanating from the PX3 tent, the Canadian Lowheaven. While it is only from the outside of the tent with a tasty gyro in hand, I am wowed by yet another discovery, I am tempted to throw the food and get into the tent to headbang my heart out, but my rumbling stomach says no. The quartet from Toronto play a punishing set, undulating between black metal and post-hardcore, just the right amount of screamo, before diving back into a cataclysmic void. Not too bad, eh?
The ever-cynical American sludge noise quartet Chat Pile are always an interactive and politically motivated affair. Frontman Raygun Busch, who clearly uses dark humor as a coping mechanism, paces the stage like a deranged comedian with aggressive yet endearing rants/crowd interaction with questions and “advice” between each track as well as silly anecdotes about everyday life in middle America. Before launching into “Why,” he asks, “Who’s reading right now? Go home and crack a book open.”
On another track, he states, “I hate AI and have never used it. If you use AI you need to change your life.” All this, of course, while nonchalantly pacing the main stage barking into the mic to a raw backdrop of dizzying, discombobulated, and bludgeoning riffs. Their sound is down-tuned bass that drags the depths of hell, propelled by the hammering assault of drums. Probably not for everyone, but fuck them, this is angry, jarring, but clever music, and actually fucking sick, creating a sense of solidarity, especially with Palestine, and further stoking the flame of anger at the injustices of the world, even amongst the jaded. And indeed, why is there still genocide? WHY!?
The rifftastic, thunderous, and filthy High on Fire are, indeed, on fire. Despite some problems with the drum kit, they rip and roar through a killer set. Unfortunately a LOT of the crowd slowly dissipate, undoubtedly to get a good spot for COL, and they do not get the attention they deserve. But it does mean getting a decent view center middle without worrying about how to rush out for the amazing set to come. Opening with the annihilating “The Art of Self Defence,” legendary, greasy as ever vocalist Matt Pike pummels the frustratingly decreasing crowd (their loss) with both Lemmy style, gravelly bellows and heavy as hell guitar. My plan was also to leave, but it would appear I have been beaten into submissions by the mighty riffs, bone-shaking bass, and gargantuan, gnarly, groovy, galloping drums, and simply can’t tear myself away from the intoxicating insanity.
Actual notes were taken during the acclaimed Swedish eight-piece post-metal deities Cult of Luna, and the illustrious and celestial Julie Christmas from the U.S. Tonight they will again collaborate to perform the cosmic horror and space travel themed Mariner for the first time in 10 year. My notes include, “Literally dumbstruck in utter awe” and “Nothing else matters in this moment.” It could be a no notes, 10/10 write up, but I will do my best to justify this historic moment with words.
Because Mariner is such a stellar masterpiece, there is no stand-out track; every moment is an exemplary highlight. From the ambient intro of “A Greater Call,” the iconic Christmas stands out in a sparkly, spacey head piece as her unmistakable silhouette darts and weaves in and out of the billowing smoke and incredible light show. The track then lifts off into the ether with explosive vocals from Johannes Persson, shimmering tremolos, and earthshattering drums. Christmas’ story telling is woven into the transcendental, cinematic, sci-fi soundscape with gentle whispers, demonic howls, and anthemic cries, battling and complimenting in a push and pull effect with and against Johannes powerful bellows while hypnotic John Carpenter-style synths add to the eerie, out-of-this world atmosphere.
Some say quirky; others might say unhinged. Persson himself said collabing with her was “like herding cats,” but either way, together, this powerhouse of an act is truly out of this world. The closer “Cygnus” somehow ascends into the beyond with an emotional and mesmerizing iteration as raw as it is powerful which cements this unique collaboration and ten year reunion as an utterly historic moment both for the festival and most, if not all of us who are so utterly privileged to bear witness. One of the best musical experiences of my life and indeed many enthused fans who go off into the night while picking jaws up from the floor,
An aptly apocalyptic ending to bid farewell to Fernhill Farm, thank you for the monumental memories. I’m not crying; you are.
It’s not a field to get wrecked in with your mates and fridge miles to see some commercial bands. This is a place of community, love, and solidarity, open-minded discovery, support, simply having your mind blown. To nerd out and share a very important passion that is a core part of many of our lives. I’m honestly regretful I didn’t catch more acts but grateful for the reconnections and new friends and great food. And that is a challenge for next year. Overall, this weekend was a tumultuous and emotional affair, but as always simply incredible with one of the best lineups so far. I can’t wait to see what is in the future over in Gloucestershire at Todenham Manor Farm.
High on Fire photos by Derek Bremner | All other photos by JacQue Photography | Words by Abi Coulson
Day 3
Day 4
