Diaries of Desertfest: Part 2

 

The last day of the festival runs around all too quickly, but there are still a few tales to be told before the proceedings are through. Dvne open up the Roundhouse on Sunday afternoon, with a set exclusively drawing from the earth-shattering Etemen Ænka from last year. Towers sounds, well, as towering as it does on record. Their epic, melodic, progressive sludge seems to have reached increasingly new and bigger audiences recently and their spot on such a big stage, though announced at short notice, is thoroughly well deserved and you can see from Dan's big grin how much they're enjoying their moment in the spotlight. They're full of technical wizardry, but have enough big grooves to get the crowd moving and headbanging - such as the end of Mleccha or the titanic riffs in Satuya. The drum fills are nothing short of crazy at times and both vocalists only seem to improve with every passing year. Their interludes between songs are worth a mention, too - bridging the songs, the music is ever-constant, drawing the crowd into a trance. There's a very cool jam between Mleccha and SÌ-XIV that sounds too rehearsed to be improvised - perhaps a peek into what's around the corner for Dvne? They'll have left with enough new fans by the end of Satuya, which showcases Victor's 9-string guitar, to be able to welcome in whichever new chapter comes for the band.

After a spot of interviewing, I stay for a bit of Conan - it's my seventh time seeing them, though, so I take a chance and decide to check out something new shortly after Hawk is Weapon. I'm told that they played a couple of new songs towards the end of their set, but I'll now have to wait to hear those. At the Black Heart, Nottingham two-piece Shrykull are making an incredible racket in a busy upstairs room. A downtuned wall of sound, with both sharing vocal duties, the guttural growls from William complement Kez's demonic shriek in an unholy alliance. It's interesting to hear how the death and black metal influences come into the guitar playing, with such a thick, dense tone that's needed in the absence of a bass player and required for any kind of doom and sludge stylings. Ultimately, though, it is eye-opening that they're able to create such a huge, full sound as a duo. The drumwork is equally as impressive - possibly the first time I've seen someone blastbeat while performing vocals - with both energy and technicality. 'I hope everyone's having a good a time as we are', William grins appreciatively mid-set.

It seems that the tribute to Eric Wagner has gone on a little earlier than expected, so I unfortunately only catch two or three songs at the end of the Trouble covers set. Incredibly, it's the first time that the five on stage had been together in the same room to blast the covers through. When there's the passion of riff worship involved, and such a high calibre of musicians are participating - I spot Witchsorrow's Nick Ruskell visibly having the time of his life onstage - perhaps you can get away with it. This band certainly does. The Tempter is a storming closer, emphasising the contrasts in tempo to huge effect. Don't all the best doom performances play the slow parts slower, and the fast parts faster? The audience absolutely lap it up, going crazy for every note. It's a worthy tribute to one of the gods of doom.

Jimmy Bower strolls onto the Roundhouse stage, flipping off the festivalgoers with a wry smirk on his face before launching into the first fuzzy Eyehategod riff of the evening. Barely off the plane for a quick interlude from a run of shows in the United States, though they joke around as if a group of misfits onstage, they're true professionals. They shrug off a Spinal Tap moment midset as Bower's guitar strap breaks halfway through a song, but he takes it in his stride and doesn't miss a beat. Mike quips that of 'like four hundred bands on the festival and no one's got a spare strap?' as his bandmate is forced to sit down for a song. Mike is as entertaining as always between songs, cheerfully telling us how it's his first time at the Roundhouse, but noticeably, his vocals are probably more clear and powerful than they've ever been in his career, particularly over mega-tracks such as New Orleans Is The New Vietnam or Sisterfucker. Ending on a defiant Kill Your Boss, the crowd feeding back with wild moshpits, Eyehategod don't need to prove their legendary status - but if you had any seeds of doubt, an hour of southern fried, sludgy power leaves you sure of it.

With frequencies you can feel in your throat, your chest and your knees - even while stood at the back of the room - Oregon's Yob ritualistically provide one of the most moving sets of the whole weekend. They're not heavy in the derivative sense, but rather a raw art form that relates to those deeper, less tangible emotions that we all feel. I'm of the opinion that you have to experience it in the live setting to really 'get' them - and more so, as this is my first time ever seeing Yob. Their set draws mostly from 2011's Atma, which has gone through the remix and remaster treatment in the last few weeks to breathe new life into the record. Mike's guitar lines are desolate, his singing emotive and tortured, and all the intricacies in the songwriting are able to shine. The music really seems to come from Mike's soul, and only he can own it the way he does. Yet for all that is beautiful, there are equal parts crushing, with gut-punching screams and melodies that make way for discord (and vice versa). Yes, it's a deep, spiritual performance - but it's also heavy as fuck when it needs to be. The crowd wouldn't have it any other way.

'Come, my fanatics...' commands Jus Oborn as Electric Wizard's introductory wall of feedback reaches a climax, following a creepy intro tape and all the anticipation London can muster. It's the stoner/doom overlords' first show in about two and a half years and you can taste the suspense (and kinda smell it, as well) in the Roundhouse. Launching into a huge rendition of Return Trip, it's a classy return to gigging for the quartet. Jus's misanthropic wail, backed up by their signature melodic riffing, washes over an adoring crowd. There are plenty of cool bass guitar fills by Haz, particularly over Satanic Rites of Drugula and The Chosen Few, and Jus is allowed to shred at the front of the mix and the stage when the time calls for it. But this is all made possible by Simon's restrained drumwork, never over filling, never over-complicated, and Liz, faithfully playing riff after riff. In this way they operate as an absolutely solid unit. You can see how the slow swing of Time To Die gets everyone nodding, and you may not think it, but there's a ton of crowdsurfers too. The guitar tone sounds huge - although interestingly, they're tuned up half a step compared to usual. The ever-shifting psychedelic backdrop is such an essential part of their set, as well. All good things must come to an end though, but they've got a few tricks up their sleeve, with an absolutely thrilling sense of suspense and release for the crowning Funeralopolis at the end of the set. Building it up, and up, and up, a sea of filming phones hit the air as THAT riff comes in with full force for the first time. Jus utters the final vocal hook into the mic before the upbeat ending sees possibly the biggest pit of the weekend, and flashing imagery of nuclear mushroom clouds and schizophrenic flashing lights make for a truly apocalyptic set closer. It's a truly unmissable and magical from the kings of British stoner doom, and what an end to round things off for another year!

Or not quite. There's still life in the festival for now, and Ten Foot Wizard provide a raucous afterparty, a fun, arse-shaking epilogue to the weekend. There's a queue to get into the Underworld, with one in, one out, and the room is claustrophobic and sweaty, but everyone packed in is having an incredibly good time. The band's energy infects the tired audience and festivalgoers get up and stage dive, particularly during the upbeat How Low Can You Go. Ten Foot Wizard pull out a bottle of Buckfast mid-set, sharing it around with each other with wide grins on their faces, encouraging us all to raise a plastic glass of Camden lager in turn. Gary's theremin solo over Covered In Tits is a true piece of showmanship, gleefully playing it between his legs - the phallic image he's going for is more than clear. He's an incredible frontman, full of acrobatics and tongue-in-cheek insults for his fans. 'Desertfest, you dirty fucking bitches!', he roars out near the end. Unlike the other band with 'Wizard' in their name before them, they focus unapologetically on fun. The stoner grooves are ever-present and truly entertaining, with a bit of punk and classic rock thrown in with the heavy bluesy vibes from Sabbath, Clutch and Queens of the Stone Age. It's a shame I'm only able to catch the second half of the set, with not wanting to miss any of Electric Wizard and the ten-minute walk past the market, but I know I'll be there for the whole set next time. 'Enjoy your lives, stay free, and don't listen to the bullshit... and fuck Boris Johnson!' announces Gary as he waves us off for another year. It's a thrilling conclusion to the weekend.

Thank you, Desertfest.

MN