Final month, Brighton performed host to certainly one of most festive steel fests round, Riffmass 2017. Terrorizer’s Jay Hampshire was there to doc all of the loud noises…
November 25th is simply too early to place up your fucking Christmas decorations, don your not-so-ironic Christmas jumpers and begin blaring out Cliff Richard. It’s not too early to throw in your battle jacket, throw up the horns and take pleasure in a festive feast stuffed stuffed with towering riffs. The aptly named Riffmass attracts collectively a number of the greatest heavy acts from across the nation, and this years’ version at Brighton’s Inexperienced Door retailer was no exception.
March The Desert kick issues off in model, laying down some fats, buzzing dessert rock with bass heavy swagger, replete with sleazy, bourbon soaked solos and mournful vocal howls that channel John Garcia if he gargled with damaged glass. Alzir whip us away with a stunning change of tempo, livid drive and unashamedly old fashioned soiled arduous rock riffs conjured by man-mountain Chris Charles and the shirtless/shoeless Will Hughes, whose bass method consists primarily of punching his instrument.
Noisepickers add no little quantity of jovial oddness to the afternoon; reverb-dripping guitar loops and close to-dance drum beats including a way of urgency, bookended by the groaning, wobbling guitar FX of Harry Armstrong, trying each bit like Richard Branson after a decade lengthy acid binge. Lacertilia ramp up the insanity, beglittered frontman Matt Fry taking to the stage in a poncho and black marigolds to say that they “play drunken rock and roll”. That they do, with deep, throbbing rhythmic grooves and beefy, triumphant guitars getting people shifting. Pure filth.
Gevaudan nail issues again all the way down to earth beneath the burden of basic doom riffing, proudly owning the house with clean, silky drumming and guitar layering that spirals off into the cosmos (fittingly so, contemplating Bruce Hamilton bears an uncanny similarity to 1 Mike Scheidt). Adam Pirmohamed’s vocals run from mournful wailing to glassy shrieks and moody growls, and his maddened spoken phrase-rants add a contact of dramatic narrative. Tonight’s solely non-UK act, The Moth are a bit extra slick and a bit extra critical; brooding bass tones and backside dredging riffs doing battle with shuddering drum fills and surprising turns of pace.
The venue is packed by the point hometown favourites King Goat take to the stage – and so it must be, they’re the answerable for placing this complete shindig collectively. A set comprised fully of recent materials hurls majestic, towering chords and entwining guitar strains into the pot together with savage breakdowns and a (seated) Anthony Trimming’s hovering, operatic vocal stylings. If that is the calibre of their new choices, we’re eagerly anticipating their subsequent launch. The Earls Of Mars include a hodge podge of members from tonight’s different acts, their hypnotic and easy model mixing seeing clean jazz keys pierced by lances of suggestions, tub-thumping drums and clattering upright bass. Harry Armstrong (keys/vocals) implores the viewers to “let the jazz into your heavy steel souls. It solely hurts for a short time”, and he ain’t incorrect.
No invoice can be full with out Croydon’s Slabdragger, who transcend all superlatives with their rumbling sludge riffing. The one-two punch of ‘Mercenary Blues’ and ‘Dawncrusher Rising’ is an entire knockout, with their cowl of Frank Zappa’s ‘Muffin Man’ descending into full anarchy after Sam Thredder breaks a guitar string and compensates by belting out some savage screams as a substitute. Normally anybody following on from Slabby-D has their work lower out, however Hampshire based mostly doom crew Witchsorrow take all of it in stride, as assured and focussed as solely a band nearing the top of a tour may be. Pits erupt as their grandiose trad-doom takes full flight, peppered with buzzing solos, rippling drum cascades and partitions of throbbing suggestions. Necroskull’s vocals drip with acidic echoes, marrying extra up to date components with the denim-clad roots worship.
Riffmass ends as a mirror picture of most Christmas days: a set of hammered revellers contended by sharing in one thing that brings them nearer collectively. Solely as a substitute of struggling via countless bickering concerning the guidelines of Pictionary and the acrid assault of Brussel sprout guffs, this steel household acquired to take pleasure in a formidable unfold of fuck-off fats riffing. Roll on subsequent 12 months.
WORDS: Jay Hampshire