This always threatened to be a noisy lineup, and the kind of gig that would provide a sonic slap round the chops for anyone brave enough to attend. Having been relocated to Gibsons at short notice after the closure of original venue Stereo, and with the number of bands being reduced to three after garage noisenicks ...And the Hangnails cancelled due to illness, it had been an eventful show before it even began.
But when it finally did get started, Manscreams really went all-out to reward those who’d turned out on a bitterly cold night. A three-piece consisting of drums, guitar and vocals, they delivered a truly primal scream that drew on elements of US hardcore, grunge and molten metal. Piledriving guitars, pissed-off shouty vocals, whiplash-inducing drums and a few pints of sweat all combined to create a high-octane set. There’s nothing like a musical punch in the stomach to kick off and night of noise, and Manscream were knockout.
The primal roar continued with Newcastle’s We Are Knuckle Dragger. Hopelessly drunk – at least in the case of shouter / guitarist Aran, who repeatedly knocked his mic stand over and ended up in a heap on the floor behind bassist during the first song – they battered their way through a megalithic set of unreconstututed, hairy-assed, overloading rock ‘n’ roll, with a large portion of the set culled from the Steve Albini recorded debut album ‘Tit For Tat’. One-dimensional gag songs like ‘Massive When Flaccid’ and ‘Steel Toe-Capped Sandal’ were introduced with lengthy ramblings that elongated the set somewhat, but seeing Aran being handed a glass of water containing ice and a straw in response to his plea for a pint was almost as amusing as wondering if he really would take down the PA speakers with his guitar as he lurched and stumbled around the stage. Pissed or otherwise, WAKD churned out a fearsomely good racket, nevertheless.
And then there was Baby Godzilla. It’s evident that they’ve evolved into something altogether bigger, badder and wilder since I last saw them back in 2010. Back then, they were noisy, scuzzy and fierce. Nowadays, Baby Godzilla come on like Pulled Apart By Horses to the power of ten and injected with adrenochrome. They’re the embodiment of hellish mayhem, a mess of hair and beards cranking out a squall of noise. The two font men Johnny Hall and Matt Reynolds play in the middle of the crowd, here, there and everywhere, with both firing salvoes of screaming vocals and blazing guitar.
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One song in and the drummer’s in front of the stage, bashing the floor tom like he’s intent on committing the most brutal of murders. The rest of the kit’s at crazy angles and mic stands and microphones are strewn about the stage and the space in front of it like the place has been hit by a tornado.
Throughout the set – a relentless assault of short, abrasive blasts of guitar noise so sharp it could draw blood (and I’m amazed there wasn’t any) – they ran gleefully about the venue like marauding pirates with their wireless guitar pickups, screaming like maniacs into the mics that found their way into random places around the room. At one point, Matt was standing on the bar, while I found myself ducking to avoid the swinging headstock of Johnny’s guitar. In being distracted, I’d taken my eye off Matt, who was lying on the floor, sprawled across my foot, screaming and still playing guitar.
It culminated in a mess of noise and scattered gear. What other possible conclusion could there be to such a riotous and exhilarating night of guitar-driven mayhem?
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