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We Hated It Before You Did @ The Gasometer

The first day of winter bought darkness, and the third instalment of The Gaso’s excellent Live Series. It’s a simple and brilliant concept – excellent bands, live recording, and $15 at the door eventually gets you 12” vinyl with two tracks from each performer from the night. Unsurprisingly, the place was packed.

 

Worng began with a ritual invocation. Morgan McWaters manned his modular synth rig at the mix position, building an electronic ostinato that grew along with a structure made of bubblewrap as it inflated on stage. A spiralling vector graphic projected to a screen that was slowly obscured by the object as it became a pyramid, growing out of the floor like a malevolent outbuilding from Atlantis or R’lyeh. Worng’s tortured bleeps, squawks and sweeps built to a climax, ended abruptly, and then Morgan stabbed his pyramid with a box cutter. 

 

Hex On The Beach took to a now purified stage in guitar/bass/drums power trio mode. Beccy, Biddy and Maya all contribute vocals, initially lulling the crowd with sweet horror film harmonies over minimal soporific washes before cutting lose and unleashing screaming punk hell. Their dynamic set kept you guessing as they expertly took you from introverted internal spaces to huge emotional outbursts and back again.

 

ASPS put their dirty Darkwave come-ons right in your face. There’s a perverted sexiness to their organ bass and icy drum machine jams that make you feel warm and exploited at the same time. Jesse Dymock held dominion over his Arturia Minibrute, tweaking it like a dungeon master with specialised clamps. Goth demon/goddess Andrea Blake cajoled, tempted and frightened us in equal measure from behind the mic, keeping the bass going in a sleazy roll as she did.

 

Miles Brown was on fire. Thanks to a thumping mix and vibed-up crowd, Miles brought an almost amphetamine-fuelled intensity to his electronics and theremin set. Waves of industrial arpeggiated synth grooves built and built until the crowd actually started moving, some despite themselves. It was euphoric, in its minor key, robots-have-stolen-our-future way.

 

Nun were a revelation. In the biblical sense. Which is terrifying. Invoking the Dark Lord through recordings alleging the details of satanic sacrifices, Jenny Branagan strode to the front of the stage with the mic and took complete control of every soul in the room. Their Cronenberg-core modular synth-punk moved effortlessly from track to track, animating the crowd like so many undead. Jenny crouched, flailed, screamed and paced, occasionally pausing to tweak her darkly ringmodulated vocals before relaunching her possessed assault at the front row.

 

Zond were almost a comforting relief. An enveloping sheet of bleached-white noise and canyon-sized vocal reverb cleansed the stage of the evening’s accumulated blood, viscera and salty fluids. Their sonic morphine held sway over a crowd in need of sedation. Then they got right down to it and gave everyone a good solid kick in the head with some brutal rock noise, reminding us never to turn our back on the sea.

 

The live recording of this night of ritual magik will make its way onto a limited run of vinyl in the coming weeks. If you weren’t there, find someone who was and get them to play it to you at full volume in a dark room with red strobe lighting, then strip you naked and tip a bucket of pigs blood over you about half way through. That should give you some sense of the occasion.

 

BY JASON ALLEN

 

LOVED: The abyss staring back at me.

HATED: That dawn still came.

DRANK: Blood.