People who read this blog will know the regard with which I hold the might Skullflower, one of the greatest bands of all time (if you don't, here's my modest history and album-by-album appraisal of the band's output: http://rustedshadows.blogspot.com/2010/11/gateway-to-blasphemous-light.html). Skullflower's evolution from post-industrial doom metal pioneers to psychedelic post-noise annihilators is one of the fascinating tales of the UK underground and, whilst I'd seen bandleader Matt Bower in action with his side-project Voltigeurs (twice, both times excellent), I'd honestly imagined my chances of a live Skullflower show, especially in such an intimate venue, were minimal.
Werewolf Jerusalem, meanwhile, is the moniker used by Houston, Texas noise legend Richard Ramirez, whose prodigious output under his own names and various collaborations and pseudonyms has elevated to the rank of royalty among noise aficionados. As an aside, he is also one of the only known gay artists operating in the field of noise, so a personal hero of mine; proof we're not all Lady Gaga-worshiping numpties with the mentality of 14-year-old anorexic girls.
Werewolf Jerusalem is, in my opinion, the greatest of Ramirez's many projects, and one of the four horsemen of the Harsh Noise Walls apocalypse (the other 3 being, probably, The Rita, Macronympha and Vomir). So my excitement was, as I mentioned, unbridled as I flitted through the CDs on sale at the door (promptly spending £30-worth) and leaned against a wall to start savouring some motherfucking NOISE.
First, though, we had to get through two opening acts that I'm afraid I won't dwell on too much. Hal Hutchinson was intriguing, but rather by-the-ropes harsh noise, most interesting when he ran what appeared to be a piece of polystyrene over a pick-up to generate some percussive bursts of static. However, it was mainly a case of all pedals and no personality. At first, I was intrigued by the next guy, Helm, who broke from the mould to work with throbbing low-frequency digital noise, before reaching to a screaming crescendo. Sadly, his lengthy set (annoyingly the longest of the lot, for some reason, meaning WJ and Skullflower's ones seemed shortened) went on for two long and quickly got dull, barely rescued by the aforementioned squealing climax.
And then, onto the good stuff, as a rather unassuming man with long black hair dragged a small table to the front of the stage and began setting up. I quickly realised this was Ramirez himself, and became a babbling idiot, whispering "It's him! It's Richard Ramirez!" to my rather baffled friend Chris who gave me a look as if to say "Well, yeah, he is performing after all".
The first thing that struck me was the modesty of the set-up. Where most noise performers laden their tabletop set-ups with an improbably large gaggle of pedals and noise generators, Ramirez was practically minimalist" a battered-looking small FM radio and what appeared to be two or three distortion pedals. And yet, his set was the loudest and most intimidating of the night, although it started quietly before gradually building into an unstoppable onslaught of crackle, roar and hiss. I read one blogger who reviewed the show musing on why fans such as me would crowd to the front to see a man standing stock still, head bent over a table fiddling with switches and knobs. It's a valid question - noise artists are not known for the interactive performance skills (although I consider Vomir's brand of absolute stasis with a bag on his head particularly potent). However, for me, this was a chance to watch a master of the art of harsh noise in action.
His movements were subtle, the shifts gentle, but potent, as a gentle twist of a knob on one pedal would take the wall of sound up a notch, increasing the bass thunder or the squeal of the high-end. And, as with Vomir and The Rita, I was struck by the sheer artistry involved; that this was not just chucking noise randomly out there, but rather a considered, intelligent sculpture of absolute sound. It's beauty was as towering and overwhelming as a Robert Morris sculpture, or the minimalist cinema of Warhol or Conrad. There is something absolute in the the musical constructions of Werewolf Jerusalem, and to be caught in the eye of the storm was fantastic.
Called Confessions of a Sex Maniac (2011, Second Layer Records), it distills (over 4 discs, so not exactly triple-filtered) the essence of what motivates, stimulates and results from the strange mind behind the Werewolf Jerusalem moniker; namely perverse sex, murder, extreme noise and, oddly, humanity.
When I briefly spoke to Ramirez after his set, I was struck by how soft-spoken and gentle he was, something which again offsets the reputation for brutality and sadism that dogs a lot of noise. No matter how nasty some of the elements and thoughts Ramirez explores are, from sadism to violence, there is a beating heart and intelligence that takes it above the crass exploitation of a lot of the noise genre's other adepts, especially the power electronics crowd. Track titles like "Your Sweet Body For Killing" and "Date for a Murder" may be a tad nasty, even tasteless, but there's a sense that this is not a man reveling in such thoughts, but rather revolting against them, the towering walls of noise being a perfect abstract embodiment of despair, anger and regret. I could be wrong, but that's the feeling I get, and the film dialogue snippet from the start of the excellent "Because of the Cats", featuring a conversation between what appears to be a policeman and a female suspect, reverse the misogynistic approach of a lot of noise artists, with the woman seeming to be both strong-headed and sexually aware, rather than a passive victim of rape or murder.
However, the moral attitudes of HNW music are hard to discern, even with WJ, and so Confessions of a Sex Maniac actually is best-appreciated as a showcase for the genre's evolution and position in the noise world, as evidenced by its prodigal son. Disc one features a series of short (for Harsh Noise Walls) tracks that showcase the genre at its grittiest and most obscenely violent. The second disc, possibly the best, is comprised of one near-hour-long exploration, "The Face at the Window", which is so loud, unmoving and extreme as to come close to swallowing the listener whole. It's the summation of the genre's bloody-minded excess and aesthetic purity, much in the manner of Vomir's Renonce or The Rita's Thousands of Dead Gods.
The third disc demonstrates, to those who would advance that all HNW sounds the same, that the genre can, and does, evolve, being more focused on digital noise, and slightly more subtle textures. The three tracks on the CD evolve cautiously, background hiss evolving gently or brutally into in-your-face mess at the flick of a switch or gradual twist of the knob on a distortion pedal. It's the disc where Ramirez most expertly experiments with the sound source of Werewolf Jerusalem's music: the static between stations on portable radios, and the three tracks are exceptional. The final CD is, in my opinion, the least interesting, being a series of collaborations with like-minded HNW artists. Whilst the idea is intriguing, I think these tracks would be best appreciated if seen live, as it's near-impossible to discern one noisician from another.
Confessions of a Sex Maniac is surely Werewolf Jerusalem's most definitive release, as mysterious and extreme as any album ever released, and the perfect embodiment of this strange artist's unrelenting quest for sonic purity.
It was a full band set-up that then took to the Grosvenor stage for Skullflower's performance, with a youthful drummer and bassist joining Matt Bower and his current partner Samantha Davies, also of Voltigeurs, who had set aside her guitar in favour of some barely-audible howls into the microphone. Bower meanwhile squatted over his monolithic guitar, unleashing the kind of full-on six-string wall-of-sound that he masters so well. The resemblances with the set Voltigeurs performed opening for Keiji Haino at Cafe Oto earlier in the month were obvious, with both Davies and Bower steadfastly keeping their backs to the audience and their heads bowed as they wrestled with the torrent they were producing. But where Voltigeurs' sound is unabashedly inert, a sort of bloody-minded form of amplifier worship that feels purposely like they are trying to summon arcane gods of noise, Skullflower is a more intricate incarnation of the dark spirits that motivate and propel Bower's muse. The presence of drums and bass reasserted the band's beginnings in less abstract forms, hinting at its doom-metal past and albums like IIIrd Gatekeeper. But such has been the evolution of Skullflower in the years following the band's "return" in 2003, that attachment to notions of "song" are vague, and so the rhythm section became a sort of platform for psychedelic flight of the most ear-assaulting kind. It was familiar stuff, but also thrillingly loud, obtuse and elegiac. But sadly too short. After two -admittedly long- tracks of blissful pagan metal, it was up, and Bower scooted off to hide behind the amps, whilst those of us still gasping for more called for an encore. For a brief second, it felt like we might get one, but the moment passed. Skullflower make the kind of music I feel I can listen to, entranced, for hours, so it would have been nice to get a longer set. But maybe sometimes it's just best to savour brief, wonderful pleasures.
On the plus side, I did then get to meet the great Gary Mundy, of Ramleh fame, and founder of Broken Flag records, who was in attendance, and who is a frankly charming fellow. I'm hoping that Ramleh will be back on tour as well soon, especially given the high quality of their recent Valediction album.
So, in all, a great evening, and there is so much to be said about seeing gigs in such intimate venues, where the beer is cheap, the space cramped but convivial, and you actually can talk to the artists after the sets. I've now been privileged to meet Richard Ramirez, Gary Mundy, Sam McKinley (aka The Rita), Romain Perrot (Vomir) and Matt Bower at The Grosvenor, as well as revel in their amazing music. As far as I'm concerned, Britney fans can keep the fucking O2 Arena.
Peace!
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