This stretch of touring Hippie Death Cult undertook throughout 2023-2024 supporting their late-’23 full-length, Helichrysum (review here), may end up as formative for the band, and if that seems counterintuitive to you as they’ve been around for six-plus years, it is. It makes sense, however, if you think of Helichrysum as a born-late debut album for the trio configuration of the band, comprised of vocalist/bassist Laura Phillips, guitarist Eddie Brnabic and drummer Harry Silvers. Hippie Death Cult‘s third album overall, it was the first with Phillips handling the role of vocalist, the first with Styles, and the first without the organ sound that had been a staple of their work to that point.

It was a significant moment in the life of the band thus far, and Phillips, Brnabic and Silvers greeted it with an adapted vision of what Hippie Death Cult do. They were sludgier and rawer, with Phillips‘ propensity for shifting into a scream and shoutier delivery generally, songs like “Arise” and “Toxic Annihilator” account for that because, unlike the material from their first two records, it was written to do so. Live at Star Theater makes a whole lot of sense to release in the way live albums make sense broadly — good for fans, look good on the merch table, etc. — but for Hippie Death Cult, they’re still letting people know (or they’re letting them know again) what they’re about as a group. Whether it’s new songs or old, Live at Star Theater is a chance for listeners who haven’t seen three-piece Hippie Death Cult to find out some of what they’ve been missing. So it makes specific sense as well.

The show was recorded Nov. 9, of course at Star Theater in the band’s hometown of Portland, Oregon, It was reportedly the last gig of the year and wrapped the already-noted busy stint that may ultimately have an impact on the development of Hippie Death Cult‘s sound — playing live a whole bunch will do that, I’m told — and they captured the full audio/video experience for posterity; one show, as it happened. It’s not this song pulled from this night and that one from that one. It’s the show, or at least part of it.

Their full set was longer, with “Squid,” “Nice to Know You,” “Better Days,” “Tomorrow’s Sky” and the Nirvana cover “Aneurysm” (posted here) closing out, but on the live album, “Arise,” “Toxic Annihilator,” “Shadows” and “Red Giant” feature from Helichrysum and they cap with a reinterpretation of the title-track to 2021’s Circle of Days (review here) that takes up 16 minutes of Live at Star Theater‘s 42-minute runtime. That ethic of fleshing the material out is there in the other songs as well, with each one longer than its studio counterpart by some measure or other. This is the way of songs with some bands — they become living things that change over time rather than setting the studio take as definitive and playing directly to that — and Hippie Death Cult‘s remaining allegiance to psychedelia resides in no small part in that flexibility.

Fret not, though, they also shred. Brnabic — who also mixed and mastered; Richard “Will” Fenton and Jeremy Romagna engineered — is no stranger to tearing up a solo or 10, and across Live at Star Theater, part of what Hippie Death Cult are showing off is the chemistry of its lineup in this form. This comes through even in the abbreviated, mostly-new set as appears on the LP, as the gallop of “Toxic Annihilator” comes in on precise stops picking up from the noisy nod that has people cheering before “Arise” is actually even done, Phillips between songs advising those who don’t want to be part of the mosh to stand aside. Fair enough.

But “Toxic Annihilator,” as taut as it is in comparison to a song like “Circle of Days,” opens up as well, during its later solo section, and alongside everything else Hippie Death Cult are doing with Live at Star Theater, they’re changing the character of their material — or at least showing how that change took shape over the course of 2024 leading to these songs, on this night, during this set — as part of their ongoing evolution. “Shadows” wasn’t as much of a standout from Helichrysum as either “Arise” or “Toxic Annihilator,” but it makes a rousing centerpiece for the live record, with a bassier push bringing Phillips‘ role at the forefront of the trio into focus as Brnabic offsets with bluesy shred and Silvers sets it to the swing with which he would seem to have been born.

“Shadows” brings a different mood than the opening duo, and the cymbal wash build into “Red Giant,” with its stops and twists, feels no less purposeful for the obvious edit before it starts. Live at Star Theater isn’t a complete live picture of Hippie Death Cult circa late last year, but in addition to the archival appeal of capturing this band at this moment in their collective history, it’s a thrilling showcase for the nastier side that has emerged in their sound, “Red Giant” playing host to a particularly vicious scream from Phillips, who then leads the band through the smoother nod that makes up most of “Circle of Days,” though I’ll note that when they get to the gallop there as well, everybody sounds relieved.

Sometimes a band ends up in a different place than they started, and with Hippie Death Cult reveling in the sludged and abrasive aspects of their sound as they do across Live at Star Theater, they have a charge to them that one wouldn’t have predicted would come to focus from their earliest work. At the same time, the subversion of expectations continues to suit the trio, and the end result of all the touring they put in for Helichrysum, as one might hear it on this live offering, is in the dynamic manner in which they bring their songs to life. I don’t know where Hippie Death Cult are going to end up sound-wise three records from now, but the path they’re on is exciting and Live at Star Theater showcases part of the reason why.

Hippie Death Cult, “Red Giant” live at Star Theater

Hippie Death Cult on Bandcamp

Hippie Death Cult on Instagram

Hippie Death Cult on Facebook

Hippie Death Cult on Soundcloud

Hippie Death Cult website

Heavy Psych Sounds on Bandcamp

Heavy Psych Sounds on Instagram

Heavy Psych Sounds on Facebook

Drone soloist Mark Kitchens, who operates under the moniker of Slow Draw with the experimentalist project, is on cusp of an April 29 release for his new five-song LP, The People’s Department of Governmental Checks and Balances. From the tense dub of its opening chapter “A Misleading Sense of Direction,” which sets its low-key beat and weaving line of synthesizer drone as a backdrop for a sample from air traffic control that I’m pretty sure returns backward on closer “Trying to Land,” the 35-minute work sets itself forth as a kind of resonant, individualized psychedelia distinct from what Kitchens has done with Slow Draw up to this point, but very much born out of those root creative impulses.

Consider that most drone you hear is made by guitarists. Kitchens handles a range of instruments in Slow Draw, but is also the drummer in Stone Machine Electric, and so that organic and electric beatmaking would be a part of his approach makes sense, even as the 12-plus-minute “Paradise of Fools” seems to be so much about the SunnO)))-style tonal overwhelm of its guitar. And fair enough, but while Kitchens spends a decent amount of the total runtime in that space, it’s still only part of the overarching impression, and Kitchens is no less purposeful in leaving the reaches open for most of “Inventing Scapegoats,” taking the placed-far-back vocals buried in the mix of the song prior and putting them as the swirling monasterial fog of the ongoing ritual exploration. Where “Paradise of Fools” was only missing drums to give a full-band feel — accomplishing a Megaton Leviathan-style avant drone-gaze in the meantime — “Inventing Scapegoats” is much quieter, to a point of minimalism early on, but does tip over to manifesting that full-band feel.

That in itself isn’t necessarily new. Kitchens had guitar/bass/drum solo arrangements on 2023’s The Mystic Crib (review here), and that rhythm would be part of the ideology even in a drone project for a drummer should be taken as no surprise. It’s the way Kitchens brings drone, psych and a kind of meditative feel together. “A Misleading Sense of Direction” is part of it in terms of setting the atmosphere, and “Paradise of Fools” reminds of Author & Punisher at its noisiest, so I’m not complaining about that either, but in “Inventing Scapegoats” and “Data Corrupter,” the latter of which sounds like it was recorded on a room mic filtered through a ColecoVision, Kitchens realizes something different in heavy psych and drone. It’s not quite drone-gaze, or heavy-gaze or whatever the difference might be between the two, but it draws from that as well as from the likes of Om and, in the case of the latter, its rough sound and samples make it sound all the more like a garage-psych dispatch from the apocalyptic now.

Each piece on The People’s Department of Governmental Checks and Balances — and if you find the implications of the cover art shocking, grow up; even David Brooks is calling for a popular uprising — adds something to the procession of the whole, and the kind of drummer’s-drone point of view can be heard in the jazzy motion of “Trying to Land,” which would seem to bookend with the leadoff, but in terms of Slow Draw making ‘songs,’ with vocals and changes and arrangements and so on, the album is an immediate standout in Kitchens‘ growing catalog. His journey to this point has brought him to a place of what feels like genuine stylistic discovery and a nascent process emerging in a project that has made experimentation a founding principle. I’m curious as hell to know where Kitchens might take Slow Draw from here, and his move toward songwriting is a big part of why.

The album streams in full below. Please enjoy:

The next Slow Draw work arrives April 29th with the new album “The People’s Department of Governmental Checks & Balances”.

IN THE BAND’S OWN WORDS:

“This album is a continuation of the frustration with current times and events as expressed in the recent release ‘Living in a Land of Scarecrows’. Things seem to be going in reverse, and nothing is logical, so, this mess of songs reflects that kind of chaos and frustration.

Since 2017, Mark Kitchens (one third of Stone Machine Electric) has been steadily releasing a series of singles and albums through his solo project Slow Draw. Informed by drone, ambient, psychedelia, and more, Slow Draw creates patient, exploratory soundscapes. At times unsettling, at others peaceful, Kitchens navigates his way through space and noise with unwavering intent.

Slow Draw is:
Mark Kitchens

Slow Draw on Facebook

Slow Draw on Instagram

Slow Draw on Bandcamp

Slow Draw website

Nearly 20 years on from their inception in 2006, Conan are an established brand when it comes to destruction, and so, that they would pointedly take violence as the theme of an album, Violence Dimension, makes sense in a way. The first lines on the record, after “Foeman’s Flesh” has laid out its tonal brunt in a signature riff from founding guitarist/vocalist Jon Davis, soon joined by drummer Johnny King and bassist David Ryley (Fudge Tunnel) — the latter of whom is making his first appearance — are, “Time will kill/This is life.” So we see that from the very outside, Conan are not only working to portray violence of the mass-scale or punch-you-in-the-solar-plexus types, but also the backdrop natural violence of the world and the fact that life ends.

This thematic plays out over a course of seven songs and 47 minutes (that jumps to eight songs/59 minutes if you get the 12-minute bonus track “Vortexxion”), and the aforementioned opener is one of three cuts over nine minutes long, alongside “Total Bicep” (9:27), “Violence Dimension” (9:14) and the finale, “Ocean of Boiling Skin” (10:04). That’s not such a radical change structurally from what Conan wrought on 2022’s attempt to crush the ridiculousness of our age, Evidence of Immortality (review here), but it does tell you that even as Conan bring in a new bassist, they remain dug into the trajectory — that’s not to say ‘path of devastation’ — they’ve been on. That’s audible in some of the speedier riffing in “Desolation Hexx” (5:18), and the later shove-mosher “Frozen Edges of the Wound,” which makes a hook of, “This is our victory/This is our time,” as well as the 46-second grindcore blowout “Warpsword,” which feels like a direct answer to the sub-minute “Paincantation” from 2018’s Existential Void Guardian (review here).

It’s a tool in Conan‘s arsenal they’ve chosen to put to use, and behind a lot of what is happening across Violence Dimension, whether it’s the mercurial tempo shifts in “Total Bicep,” which seems to be in a feedback loop of its own speed and aggression, or the title-track, which uses minimalism in its early going in a way I’m not sure Conan ever have before to create an Earth-style drone nod across much of its first half. Of course, it gets heavier to offset the quieter parts, and there are low-growled vocals later, but that the quiet part exists at all is the point.

I’m assuming that’s Ryley on vocals, stepping into the secondary-singer role formerly held by Chris Fielding, who as regards Conan has shifted back to producer-only, though if you told me Davis convinced Fielding to throw down growls on the studio versions, I’d believe it was him on the recording. Ether way , the dual-vocal dynamic that developed between Davis and Fielding was/is the most blatant example of Conan growing as a band over time while remaining committed to their core underlying approach, and even as they move forward with someone else, that isn’t being sacrificed.

And it wouldn’t be. As chaotic and as claustrophobic and intense as Conan can get — and at their heaviest, there are few heavier — they have always been methodical and conscious of what they want to do with their songs. They want them to kill, yes, but the how and why of that violence is part of what Violence Dimension is exploring. The title-track pairs well with “Total Bicep” just before it, as the prior slab is more of an assault, pushing into a midsection gallop that, while I have no idea what the song is actually about, is affecting as it slams into the subsequent slowdown, rides that nod for most of its second half, and fades out to give space to what follows.

Likewise, one could argue for “Frozen Edges of the Wound” as a reorientation or regrounding after “Violence Dimension,” since its shorter course feels more outwardly straightforward and the title-track makes a point of its atmospherics — which, rest assured, are plenty heavy all on their own, whatever take-a-breath letup they might otherwise represent. But all of this is to remind that there’s human presence behind Conan‘s inhumane sound, and that the transition to bringing Ryley into the band as a full-time member (because he and other bassists had filled in before) hasn’t derailed their progression, or even seemingly rerouted it from what their intentions might otherwise be.

That said, Violence Dimension is just the first record of the Davis/Ryley/King era — last year’s DIY 10″ Series Issue 1 EP (review here) notwithstanding — and it may turn out to be the starting point of an entirely new branching off of their sound, and you just can’t know because it hasn’t happened yet and evolution takes time. Or the world could end tomorrow. Whatever. Regardless, the remarkable nature of Conan‘s take — immediately identifiable, marked by distinctive characteristics in tone and songwriting purpose — lets it be so much its own while never quite the same twice. Aurally speaking, it is a great, hulking beast, and Violence Dimension continues this tradition organically and intentionally.

Conan have always known who they are and what they’re capable of, and though there have been changes in the band — Davis has in the past and here incorporated some ambience and drone also explored in his Ungraven side-project, which also has a new LP, Ryley coming on board, etc. — that self-awareness has never done anything but serve the band, allowing them to hit that much harder for knowing why they’re doing it and what they’re trying to convey.

“Ocean of Boiling Skin” rises at its midpoint to a huge, malevolent tsunami of a nod that comprises its final march into oblivion, and that’s how it ends save for the deluxe editions, which include “Vortexxion.” The bonus cut becomes the longest on the LP at 12 minutes, and in the spirit of “Grief Sequence” from Evidence of Immortality is centered around noise; in this case a few obscure samples bookending a large stretch of feedback and other frequency manipulations. It’s not an easy listen, but this too is the point.

The band list Violence Dimension as their seventh full-length, which is something of retcon of 2010’s Hoseback Battle Hammer EP (discussed here; review here) as their debut album — fair enough for how important a release it was for them — but wherever you number it in their discography, the fact remains they are uniquely suited to portraying this album’s theme. Cleaving skulls may not be anything new for Conan, but they’ve gotten awfully efficient at it, and Violence Dimension works well to tie in elements they’ve introduced over the last few outings while lowering a tonal palette of concrete riffs onto the collective chest of their audience. Very much what one would hope for a sixth or seventh Conan album, in other words.

Conan, Violence Dimension (2025)

Conan, “Desolation Hexx” official video

Conan website

Conan on Facebook

Conan on Instagram

Conan on Bandcamp

Heavy Psych Sounds on Facebook

Heavy Psych Sounds on Instagram

Heavy Psych Sounds on Bandcamp

Heavy Psych Sounds website

[Click play below to stream Dead Shrine’s Cydonia Mensa in full. Album is out tomorrow through Kozmik Artifactz and can be ordered here: https://kozmik-shop.com/search/?qs=dead+shrine.]

Prolific songwriter Craig Williamson offers Cydonia Mensa as the second full-length from the heavy-swinging, psych-rocking Dead Shrine, his third solo-project. It follows behind the project’s 2023 debut, The Eightfold Path (review here), and the 2024 collaboration Lamp of the Universe Meets Dr. Space (review here), for which the Hamilton, New Zealand-based composer, multi-instrumentalist and vocalist donned his long-running acid-folk band persona shortly after reissuing the debut album from his turn-of-the-century-era heavy rock outfit, Datura, on Ripple Music. One could go further back — Lamp of the Universe‘s second LP has a reissue out on Sound Effect Records, and that project’s last album, Kaleidoscope Mind (review here), came out later in 2023 after The Eightfold Path — but to place Cydonia Mensa in Williamson‘s oeuvre, it’s not difficult to hear the love of heavy psychedelic forms driving the material.

That is to say, Williamson sounds like he’s having a blast across the eight songs and 42 minutes that comprise the album. Despite the full-band sound, the committed DIYer is able to hone a sense of intimacy in the penultimate “Evolution Garden” that harkens back to earlier Lamp-style acoustic-based fare while also reinterpreting at its root the strum from Alice in Chains‘ “Rooster.” That’s a dig-in unto itself on the album, but by no means does it take that long for the fun to make itself known.

The opening cut, “Serpents of the Sun” is a hooky blowout that introduces itself with a crash-in and almost immediate movement into the verse. Big swing, big tones, and plenty of space in the mix for all of it. It’s a rocker and he knows it and there’s more to come. Some bawdiness in the vocals, a little burl tossed in, perhaps, adds to the song’s encouraging push, and soon, “Cydonia Mensa” picks up with its lower-ended, slower roll, with choice backing vocals and time kept on the bell of the ride.

It’s a sleek, grooving classic stoner boogie, and it speaks to genre in a way that Williamson‘s last outwardly heavy-rocking project, the trio Arc of Ascent, wasn’t necessarily willing to do. And where Lamp of the Universe explores spiritual ideas through music drawing from folk traditions, space experimentalism, melted-cortex psych, and so on, Dead Shrine expresses itself in the motion of its riff worship.

I’ll say as well I can’t remember the last time I heard a drummer have as much fun as Williamson sounds like he’s having wailing on his snare coming out of the first verse of “Sacred Light.” It’s a short stretch on the cowbell-infused third cut, from a couple seconds before it hits the one-minute mark until about 1:10 when the next verse starts, but that pop-pop-pop surrounded by the crashing of cymbals and the kick beneath, to me, is exactly what Dead Shrine is all about in terms of Williamson‘s raw enjoyment.

The end-product is different enough to be a different band, but the joy of exploration is the same. It’s there in “Sacred Light,” as well as in the “Yeah, baby!” of the title-cut, the way “Monuments” subtly brings in sitar drone and a synthier psychedelia — it might be mellotron behind the more forward instrumentation of the mix, but if not, it’s some other kind of vintage whathaveyou leading into the appropriately wah-drenched solo — expanding the relatively straight-ahead scope up to that point ahead of pushing further out on side B, swaggering in “Temple of Saturn” with a shove in the chorus rawer vocal.

The vocals feel like a standout. Not so much because they’re radically changed from what Williamson has done before in Dead Shrine or Arc of Ascent or even latter-day Lamp of the Universe, but as someone constantly redrawing the lines and adjusting the balances between the various intentions of his craft, the vocal performance here is striking in its confidence, and while he’s long since been able in the studio to do the work of a complete band one layer at a time and mix it together to get a players-in-room feel, I don’t know if Williamson has ever sounded as much like a frontman as he does on Cydonia Mensa.

Returning in “Redeemer,” the backing vocals of the title-track highlight just how forward the leads are and how much of Cydonia Mensa‘s personality derives from the attitude on display and the strut that coincides with the rampant swing in these songs. For that alone, the impression is that Williamson has figured out something about what he wants Dead Shrine to be in terms of method, and while it’s ultimately well within the reach of his songwriting as demonstrated up to this point — that is, he’s not taking on an entirely new stylistic approach to writing heavy music — it’s emblematic of what drives him that after more than a quarter-century of banging away at various ideas and projects and directions, he’s able to create a piece like the near-eight-minute capper “Illumination Through Knowledge,” which makes a point of uniting all the sides for one final outbound march into the noise and hand-percussion that ends the album.

In the interest of honesty, you should know that I approach this second Dead Shrine album as a fan, but given the reception of the debut, I don’t think I’m alone in that. The fact that Williamson is still exploring and still finding new ways to write and arrange songs that are both fresh and so distinctively his own underscores in my mind his singular contributions to the heavy underground, and the resonant joy of some of Cydonia Mensa‘s heaviest moments — I’m not taking away from “Evolution Garden” there; the penultimate track is essential to the flow for side B and putting the listener in the proper headspace for the closer — adds a feeling of serenity that not even the most blissed-out effects could hope to hone. Whether you’ve followed Dead Shrine since its inception or you’ve never heard of Williamson, this or any of his other projects, it doesn’t matter. The album will still grab you if you let it. I advise you do.

Dead Shrine on Facebook

Dead Shrine on Instagram

Dead Shrine on Bandcamp

Kozmik Artifactz on Facebook

Kozmik Artifactz website

Past experience with Insect Ark — not to mention last year’s Raw Blood (review here) made the set at Next Stage an early must-see, so I got there good and early and found a balcony spot, more or less beginning the last day of Roadburn how I did the pre-show on Wednesday. Worked out then for sure, and it was positive results — different styles, of course, but just in terms of standing in front of something cool — this time as well, so thanks balcony. Dana Schecter, whose band it is, was on bass/vocals and with Tim Wyskida (who was here in 2024 with Khanate) on drums and a lap steel/reg’lar old guitarist named Lynn Wright, I’m pretty sure it was the first incarnation of Insect Ark as a three-piece that I’ve seen, though presumably they’ve played with that construction before. You never know at Roadburn.

Dark and dense in tone, Insect Ark were preceding Swans founder Michael Gira on Next Stage, which must’ve been a trip since Schecter has been part of the Swans oeuvre as well. But Insect Ark’s post-doom stands on its own, and I don’t mean post- like ‘it has floaty guitar parts,’ because for the most part it doesn’t, but in the sense of a new thing extracted from an old one, which in this case is doom, sludge, art rock and a strong undercurrent of intention behind the experimentalism of their songwriting. It’s early to call Schecter a legend in the field of avant heavy, but not by much, and her command over Insect Ark’s delivery felt complete as the trio lurched through the set to the hard beat of Wyskida’s drums. It’s not my place to pitch candidates for residencies, but among artists with genuine creative reach, who not only have the back catalog behind them but the forward-thinking approach to come up with something truly special, Schecter would be a candidate in my mind for sometime in the next few years.

An encore showing of Costin Chioreanu’s short film ‘The Hunter’ played before Frente Abierto’s set. The Andalusian outfit are steeped in Spanish culture and music, with flamenco vocals over heavy riffs and dark-edged groove. I’d been given a heads up to check them out, so I did. Some of it came across as more angular, but rhythmic intricacy in something flamenco-influenced shouldn’t be a surprise, and I’m not sure what I can say about it except it was something I’d never seen before.

The Andalusian region has an incredible history of psychedelia and progressive music drawing on styles within the rock paradigm as well as influences from Spanish and North African culture. Think of a band like Atavismo, Viaje a 800 and any number of others. Frente Abierto’s sound was born out of this, and so it’s not at all something out of nowhere that a band would have such convergent interests, but even in that context, the flamenco vocals trading off between two singers, the ease with which they changed between electric and acoustic sounds, the synth component mixed with standup bass, it all carried a strong sense of reverence for what it was doing, was resonant for that in a way that was its own and engaged Heavy, as a musical element, in a way that was its own. Certainly in heavy music, probably also in flamenco as well, though again, the influence has been incorporated into rock music for decades where they’re from. Ask Spinda Records about it some time. I’m glad I did.

The projections behind added to the atmosphere, and at their heaviest, they were almost sludgy, even as the vocals soared. And as they would almost have to they brought both singers out for the finale, with bassist Marco Serrato (Orthodox and others) getting on mic before hand to thank the crowd and the fest for having them. This was my first exposure to the project, obviously, and realistically, I may never run into them again, but they were spellbinding right up to that last and most affecting build, and I appreciate the chance to have seen them all the more.

Couple secret shows got announced for the Skate Park with a couple young Dutch hardcore bands (and Thou), but I was set where I was at the 013, thanks. I felt like, especially this being the last day I wanted to cram as much of this place into my brain as possible. Nothing against Koepelhal, Hall of Fame, the park, any of it, but Sumac into Bo Ningen — made imperative through hard suggestion after their secret show, was how I would bring it all down. Early ride to the airport ahead of me, a long flight and then what I expected would be a healthy few days of having my ass kicked by The Pecan for making her feel feelings at my absence were to be had (somehow I feel compelled to add, “if I was lucky” there; parenting is weird and dumb), and even if not, I wanted to get my rest while I could.

Not the most rock and roll of attitudes, but unless you’re either 20, on cocaine, or both, you have to eventually find a way to do this that’s sustainable, and I did a lot of back and forth over Thursday, Friday and Saturday, so with fewer stages going, I was happy to take a mellower route to close out my Roadburn 2025.

Another quick dinner downstairs — I ate at least one meal and snack every day at Roadburn, which felt both strange and healthy as a practice — and I could hear Michael Gira on the Next Stage though three door as I walked back to the big room for Sumac, with whom I’ve never quite fully been able to get on board in terms of my own listening habits, but have seen here before and enjoyed and who were doing their 2024 album, The Healer, in its entirety. The three-piece of guitarist/vocalist Aaron Turner, bassist Brian Cook and drummer Nick Yacyshyn — of Isis, Russian Circles and Baptists, respectively (also a ton of others between them) — have done enough as Sumac at this point that their pedigree is secondary, Nd as they went through album/set, they were the heaviest thing I’d heard since Ontaard and Throwing Bricks, a heft they seemed to bring down on you while they played. I could feel the floor vibrating, as well as the plugs in my ears.

They’re a known commodity at Roadburn, so the room was packed out. I’d been given a bunch of drink tokens on Wednesday, and since I don’t drink and was set for water, I handed a bunch out to people as I went up to the balcony to watch the rest of Sumac after taking pictures, and mostly that was well if confusedly received. Sumac, meanwhile, were hypnotizing with feedback and noise before launching into a monster of a chug march, Yacyshyn punctuating with a brutal thud while Turner death-rasped and the flashing lights went off. Those weren’t especially fast — none of it was, some solo shred notwithstanding — but hit me kind of abrasive anyway, so I kind of just put my head down and let it wash over, which is just what it did.

An hour between Sumac and Bo Ningen gave me a bit of downtime to sit, watch people come and go, listen to tunes on the P.A. and text my wife for the 500th time before the Japanese psych troupe hit stage. There’s always the urge to do as much as you can, a kind of oh-no-Roadburn’s-ending panic, but I’ll tell you honestly I was knackered, as your friend and mine Shaman Lee likes to say. Total nonsequitor, but here’s a fun moment in the life of two blog types sharing a room: while discussion about the Oxford comma earlier. Like a real conversation about it. He said he used it but didn’t always feel like he should, and I said that was the answer; that sometimes it worked in a sentence and sometimes it didn’t and a rule either way didn’t make sense. That was where we left it. I love grammar chat.

And I love it here. I have been so incredibly, stupidly lucky over the last decade and a half to have Roadburn as a part of my life. This festival wins awards. They get government grants. Roadburn does not now nor has it ever needed me for anything, least of all these reviews. But to have been back this weekend was so special, seeing my friends and remembering that I’m even a teeny-tiny part of the community I’d asked Walter and Becky about in their Q&A. It is humbling to call Walter a friend because of the respect I have for what he has done and does, but I will tell you honestly that while I’ve had life-changing experiences by the dozen at Roadburns since 2009 when I first came over, that friendship means more to me than every one of them put together. You can tell him I said that. I should, but he gets embarrassed by that kind of thing.

People started coming in about 20 minutes before Bo Ningen. My head was three-quarters out the door and back at the room sorting photos by the time they went on, but there was no mistaking the blowout upon its arrival. The set was comprised of 2012’s Line the Wall, which I didn’t know before they went on and now have a record to buy, so thanks, if not from my wallet. But some cosmic push, heavy space rock, psych twists and a few points of full on wash — plus riffs — was a very welcome but of madness. I resolved to hold out as long as I could, and they made that easier to be sure. Bassy groove and likewise thick fuzz, echo reachout and an energy behind it that put the Main Stage in its place. I have to think (hope?) that if I’d been at Roadburn 2022, I might have caught them then, but if I’m late to the party — and Line the Wall was their second album and it came out 13 years ago, it’s definitely arguable I am — so be it. Not like the songs got stale in the meantime.

I stayed put as long as I could but still beat the rain getting back to the hotel room. Tried to check in for my flight, couldn’t, but did find out I’m on a different flight to New York than I thought and instead of Newark, which is like 25 minutes from my house, I’m going through LaGuardia, which very much is not. That and being in a middle seat in a row of three for a seven-and-a-half-hour flight would not give me much to look forward to about leaving in the morning, beyond getting home at the end of a day that was harder than I thought it was going to be.

Thanks for reading. Thank you to Roadburn, Walter, Becky, Jaimy, Miranda, Koos, and the entire crew who make the festival happen. Thank you to The Patient Mrs., The Pecan, and my mother and sister. Thanks to Lee for putting up with me while sharing the room. Sorry for the 6AM alarm.

Taking today off writing for travel, so I’ll be back at it properly with posts on Wednesday.

More pics after the jump.

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What day is it? What day was it? I feel like my days are almost as screwed up as my tenses in these posts, so at least I’m being accurate to an experience outside of normal spacetime. Years ago it was Planet Roadburn. I feel like nowadays it’s more its own dimension.

My day started at V39. I knew Witch Club Satan were up at Koepelhal ripping to shreds the patriarchal paradigms in and beyond black metal — and that’s an effort worth supporting — but after seeing videos, I kind of felt like it would be too much on a sensory level, so I decided to hit a panel discussion: ‘Keeping it Creative: How to foster creativity and authenticity in a content demanding world.’ Relevant to my interests, to be sure.

Today, Walter’s annual Q&A will be in the same space, and that always draws a crowd, but this did too. I sat up in the back as the room filled in, curious to hear thoughts on the new economics of attention as regards algorithmic capitulation/manipulation, and I have my own opinions on the subject as well, which is surely no surprise.

The panel had professionals from management, labels like Century Media and The Flenser and Evil Greed, the band Uniform and the solo artist Denisa, both of whom who’d be playing later. Discussions of keeping a true sense of self amid commodification, “playing with the monster” in terms of spreading content, and it was a fascinating array of perspectives. It was not only esoterics, either. They were taking about posting tshirts and such, too. Real life, and especially interesting to hear from Denisa, who noted that she grew up with social media as part of her life, native to it, and how it was always a part of her process as well as her shift from poppier fare to the less-accessible heavy sounds she makes now. Mike from Uniform, on the other hand, had the older punker’s take: “I’d rather be dead than have to play a fucking character.”

Fair. It was a good conversation, and in the Q&A when the topic turned to AI, it was takes from never-never-never to if-you-can’t-beat-em-find-your-own-way and the very real answer that human artists will keep making art regardless of what computers do. It’s a complex question, and I agree that it’s not a thing worth debating when it’s already happening. If you wanted to stop it, you’re at least a decade late. Needless to say, everything on this site, most especially my favorite Quarterly Review banner, was composed in ChatGPT. I’ve never been a real person. There is no me there.

Nonetheless, I did feel a little more human when the panel was done and the thing I most wanted to do was go back to the hotel room and brush my teeth again. Too much coffee in the 013 office while blurbing in the morning, which I’ll just call a hazard of the trade, had my mouth feeling particularly nasty, so I hoofed back over instead of taking a more direct route to see Steve Von Till on the Main Stage. The former Neurosis guitarist/vocalist has his new solo album, Alone in a World of Wounds, out next month of course on Neurot, and has brought LPs with him in addition to doing a Harvestman set Friday with songs from the three records he released last year with that project. And he and Thomas Hooper have a show at the art gallery as well. A genuine residency.

The very definition of a Roadburn veteran — the first Roadburn I ever came to was 2009, the year Neurosis curated; if I’m honest, I’m still not done grieving how that band ended — I think it might also have been Von Till’s first time solo on the Main Stage, unless he was there in my lost years, 2022-’23. I’d have to check the Archiving Heaviness wall. Or, you know, the internet.

Von Till got on mic before the set, thanked the room, the crowd, Walter and Becky, the crew, the bar staff, and so on. He introduced Dave French (now also of YOB) on drums/synth and cellist Brent Arnold, who’s done string arrangements for Von Till’s solo records since 2020’s No Wilderness Deep Enough (review here), and said they were going to get lost in their version of soul music for the next hour and anyone who wanted to do the same was welcome. Paraphrasing. With a fullness of rumble from the drone beneath him, of the cello and synth both, sitting at a grand piano or standing with a guitar, Von Till opened himself up and bled songs for that hour. Raw, contemplative and thoroughly his own sound, expanded greatly from the days when his arrangements were mostly voice and acoustic, but very much rooted in the same craft and intimacy. And making a show personal with 2,500 or however many people were in the room is a rare gift that Von Till has carved for himself out of whatever kind of rare and ancient wood it was, not cynically, but as an artist committed to their purpose.

I don’t know how long it had been since I saw him last, but there was something reassuring about it in addition to the resonance of the melancholy. After doing about a song and a half of photos — I’ve been limiting myself to roughly that per act; the house rule is three songs — I went up to the balcony to watch more before shifting my wobbly physicality to the a Next Stage for Welsh folk expansionists Tristwch Y Fenwod. Despite being in the room half an hour before they went on, I was too late to get a spot in the front, but I put myself where I could and was like two people back.

However, by the time they went on (their scheduled time, mind you; it’s not like they were late), I was done standing there. The room had filled in significantly — when I left, the line snaked past the far entrance to the Main Stage — and it was uncomfortable. Nothing anyone did, just me being out of place in my body, which at 43 feels a little extra sad, but there you go. They were super-cool, with the dulcimer, electric drums, and bass, and laptop running other noises and such, but I couldn’t take the crowd press. My head started to hurt and I left. It was still their first song.

I ended up on the line for Temple Fang’s secret show at the skate park, which had been announced through the TMSQR app. I wasn’t the first one hanging out by the entrance to the Hall of Fame, out the back door there, but I was early enough to be toward the front of the queue. That meant sitting next to the garbage can, which was less preferential as regards smell, but so it goes. The door opened at about 5:30, and by then the line was long since around the corner farther than I could see.

The weather was beautiful, which made sitting outside not so terrible — cool but sunny; perfect for a flannel and so perfect for me — but I was anxious to get in and could hear them soundchecking outside with parts of “Once” and “The River.” Those two songs would comprised the entirety of the set — that’s like 40 minutes, just so you know — and it was the second spiritual realignment Temple Fang handed my ass this weekend.

The door opened and I went and parked myself in front of the stage. Jevin de Groot came through just before they went on and thumbed third eyes on me and the four or five other people sitting on the same skate-block. Thus was I blessed. And I’m not going to say I’ll never wash my forehead again, because I will, but the urge to have it tattooed is there. It was a big one too. Way open.

Admittedly, this is not the most third-eye-open time through which I’ve lived — in fact, it’s hands-down the stupidest year of my existence if you want to look at the full context of it — but it didn’t matter. I wrote not one word while Temple Fang played, which was a first for the weekend I realized after the fact, and did my best to put the camera down after like five minutes. For my reasoning, I’ll quote “Once”: “Once you feel the sadness/You become the sadness/Once you let it go/It finds another home/Shackles will explode.” While Temple Fang played, I let it go and found what I came here for. Open third eye or not, I was in it.

Understand this: I’m not looking to escape my life. My life is fucking incredible. To wit, I’m at my 13th Roadburn. I have everything and everyone I could ever want and the dog besides. I’m not trying to escape that. I’m trying to escape me.

For just a little while, Temple Fang gave me peace in my head, and when they were done I teared up. There’s a Midwife shirt in the merch that says on the back, “I cried at a Midwife show.” I get that. But I sat there at the skate park with my thumbprinted forehead and breathed in the basslines, felt the snare pops in my head, and I promise you that whatever portion of my remaining hearing I sacrificed taking my earplugs out (also a weekend first), it was worth it. I can’t promise you I haven’t said that before about Temple Fang either. I could go on for hours, days, but healthy emotional processing would have to wait because ØXN would soon be on the Main Stage.

They were, in fact, spread across it with a four-piece lineup with Radie Peat from Lankum, who were here last year, and Percolator, about whom I know nothing beyond the association. The electro-folk blend worked to make “Down in the Greenwood Valley” a dance number, and they opened with an synth-ambient take on “O’Death,” but while some (not all) of the material was traditional, the aesthetic was modern while still highlighting the human element through harmonized voice, keys and live drums.

I took a few pictures and ran downstairs for a quick dinner, which I guess is a thing I do now? I had breakfast this morning — scrambled eggs and cheese, a couple pieces of coldcut chicken breast, which I’m pretty sure isn’t poisonous here like it is at home — but missed lunch. So in about six minutes I did to a plate of chicken, salad and meatballs what Throwing Bricks and Ontaard did to The Engine Room on Friday afternoon as far as destroying it with max efficiency. After that, it was back upstairs to ØXN for a while, then I decided to hop over to Next Stage where Japan’s Kuunatic would soon go on. I wouldn’t get there in time to shoot it, and sure enough the room was on its way to full with about 15 minutes to go before the set, but I was more than content to hang out up in the back for a while as the Japanese folk-informed psych rockers got going.

Playing it by ear is a particular kind of Roadburn ideal. The notion that one would be so willing to take the ride as far as discovery goes and step outside their comfort zone, whatever that might be; it’s the Enlightened Roadburn. To be at peace with the clashes on the timetable and wander like a monk (or a shaman if you’re Lee) from one venue to another. To know that it’s okay if you don’t see everything because no one does, and to realize that the place you want to be is wherever you are, or if not, that you can change that. I don’t know if it’s something to aspire to since it feels like maybe aspiration is some of what you’re shucking off, but it’s a way. I’ve been trying to have less of a plan, take fewer pictures, smile more. I still run away from socializing, but I’m trying.

It was a whim that took me to ØXN and a whim that took me to Kuunatic, so no regrets. The oft-harmonized three-piece found life in bringing together heavy rock basslines and rhythmic tension with more traditional Japanese instruments in the surrounding arrangements as well as the vocals. Yes, not the first meeting of then and now, stylistically, and it wouldn’t be the last, but their melodies and punchy drums and bass were immersively full, which was already more than one might ask.

I started to get itchy and was on my way back to the Main Stage and stopped long enough to see the publicist Ilka Pardiñas, whom I’ve known for over 20 years at this point. She was standing in a group with the writer Jamie Ludwig, who is a fellow Weirdo Canyon Dispatch veteran, and former Goatsnake bassist Guy Pinhas, who I’m pretty sure still works at Southern Lord Europe, and who took time out of his day to call me a fascist for going to the social media panel this morning and using social media at all.

Save me from dudes and their opinions. Surely I had that coming, somehow? Surprisingly unhelpful to anything more than making me think someone whose work I’ve respected and written about favorably in the past is a jerk. He so clearly had been waiting all day to show off that Opinion™ of his about a thing. Yawn. Guy Pinhas thinks I’m a fascist. What an honor. I should get a tshirt made. Nice to know even Roadburn can have an oldschool bully or two hanging around. Here’s my review of when he played with Victor Griffin in 2013. Here’s my review of when he was here with Wino as part of The Obsessed in 2012.

I said, “Cool,” and walked away a short time later. Nice to see you, Ilka. It had been a while.

There was little time to be insulted by someone who doesn’t know me in the slightest but was happy to presume all kinds of bullshit about me and then namedrop Noam Chomsky’s Manufacturing Consent to complete the Gen-X-punker-with-useless-and-14-year-old-level-insight cliché, because Dutch-Turkish psych rockers Altın Gün were soon to take the Main Stage. I refused to let that downer experience get me down, and sure enough, rejuvenation was had in a succession of slick grooves and mellow Turkish-psych vibes. They were one of the first announcements for this year, and not knowing the band previously, it was a “huh, bet that’ll be cool” kind of prospect. Turned out very much that way. I guess there’s an element of trust involved with a lot of festivals, but not everybody pushes those boundaries like Roadburn, and the reward for that is the people dancing as Altın Gün played under the strobing reds and blues. Badass.

And like much of what I’d taken in throughout the day, it was a mixture of forms. Turkish and Mediterranean psych are traditions unto themselves, and for sure they were in line with that, but again, a modern take. Roadburn’s whole thing these last years has been respecting the past, moving forward. I don’t know how many times that line occurred to me across the different performances. All you have to do is stand in front of a stage to see it. I don’t want to generalize in describing Altın Gün’s sound, because I recognize they put their show together specifically for Roadburn, but even if this is only a partial representation of what they do, they obviously knew what they were doing when they picked the songs. Even on the balcony, dancing and clapping. Not everybody, but not nobody either.

I’m not sure whether you’d call Altın Gün the headliner — kind of felt like a headlining set for whatever that’s worth — but they were neck deep in a percussion solo as the hour passed 10 and they only pushed the party from there to the extra-funky, extra-bassy finish. Chat Pile closed the Main Stage though, following up on their skate park show Friday. They just this week released a live album recorded at Roadburn 2023, and are supporting that as well as their 2024 album, Cool World (review here), which has continued to earn rare hype in the months since its release for remaking noise rock in its image and having something to say about the world around it. I’m not arguing. This was my first time seeing them. Apart from Steve Von Till, today was once again all firsts, and I didn’t even make it to pg.99.

Chat Pile’s line check had been the loudest thing I heard all day, so naturally their set followed suit. I have to wonder how they’re not called Americana, the Oklahomans sure reminded me of the country of my birth in their resonant disaffection as much as the sludgiest of their riffs, but that’s been the thing all along, right? That intangible thing that separates Chat Pile from the hordes, actively noticed by people like me only long after they’ve already taken off in the hopes of saying something new about a band everybody’s talking about. I’ll say I got more of the nü metal live than from the records, but it’s not like they were doing Korn slappa-bass — next record, maybe — just purposefully dissonant while being thick in tone. The volume level stayed high except for between songs when frontman Raygun Busch — the band is Busch, guitarist Luther Manhole, bassist Stin, and drummer Cap’n Ron — regaled the main hall with some choice ad-libbed banter before the next round of agonized harsh-throat barks and/or spoken word in the songs.

I’m still not sure I like Chat Pile, as in being a fan, but they flattened a room with like 3,000 people in it and sounded ready to take on more, so maybe they’re the band that now needs somehow. Maybe primal is the thing.

That was where I left it. Somebody clearly trying to make it outside who perhaps was not in the best capacity to judge their ability to do so had puked on the stairs, and I was glad to use the other side as I made my way down and out to wrap the night.

Today is Roadburn Sunday, the last day of what’s been an incredible and surprisingly quick time. Thank you if you’ve kept up so far. I know it’s a lot. It’s a lot when you’re here, too, but mostly a life-affirming lot. Thanks for reading. More pics after the jump.

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By virtue of the most solid eight hours of sleep I’ve had in the last six months, I was reborn. My first thought this morning when Lee’s alarm went off at nine was “now we’re talking.” Okay, Roadburn. I’m here.

That was a fortunate position to be in, because as will happen in Tilburg each Spring, today was packed. Showered, coffee, a couple crucial changes made, like my pants. Went to the 013 office with Lee for blurbing for the app and such, back to the room, ate an apple that I’d grabbed from the breakfast downstairs, got myself together and ready to jump back into it.

The sun came out as I waited on the line outside The Engine Room. I was glad to have traded purple hoodie for wizard flannel back at the room. 1PM would be an early start to the day with the Throwing Bricks and Ontaard commissioned piece ‘Something to Lose.’ I knew/know precious little about either band, but had heard exciting things, and when you’re here, the commissioned pieces are part of why. An ongoing series of maybe-once-in-a-lifetime performances and collaborations — among the ‘special sets’ that I’ve seen at Roadburns over the years, they’ve been some of the most special — and word was that the two young Utrecht bands, had gone all-in on the project. Something I’d never seen and something, two bands I’d never heard and I’d probably never be able to see otherwise. I don’t take it for granted how par-for-course that is at is at Roadburn.

Barring disaster between now and the end, Thursday will have been the hardest day for me at Roadburn 2025. Usually Friday is pretty rough because I’m through the initial adrenaline of getting here and have to sort of coast on momentum, but that sleep and some food did me good. Lesson learned? Probably not. With the busier schedule of today, though, I was happy for how it worked out.

Even more after Ontaard and Throwing Bricks went on, because the moisture level in the room shot up immediately and it was all snuggles in the tight photo pit. It was too early in the day for me to smell that bad, so I grabbed the shots I could and ended up making my way around the entire room (apologizing to everyone crunched in in the space as I passed excuse me I’m sorry excuse me I’m sorry excuse me I’m sorry I was born, etc.) to get my camera bag from the other side of the photo pit. In hindsight, this was a dumbass move, but I underestimated how many people there would be, despite having waited on line with them outside. I don’t have an excuse. Just a moron. Sorry.

I do hope somebody had the good sense to record ‘Something to Lose,’ though, because it struck me as an effort worth preserving, and it would be cool to hear the depth of the atmospherics against all that bashing away, blast and plod and nod, but if it’s a one-shot and that’s it, take it as a reminder to be present the moment as much as you can. Genre lines rendered as meaningless as they ultimately are, they were cohesive and purposeful as players came and went from the stage, vocalists trading out, spoken word over drones, all leading to a grand finale of upwards of 14 of them on the stage. Quite a thing to behold. Then you get to the music, which was likewise divergent and devastating. I watched from the back, stank but out of the way, and if you believe in Roadburn’s vision of ‘underground futurism,’ in terms of being forward thinking about things to come in heavy anything, it was right there on stage. Consuming.

There was a box of tapes for me at the backstage entrance — not at all aberrant; for years I’ve had all my mail forwarded through the 013 office (not true) — and I had walked down toward the Hall of Fame and seen no end to the line for Midwife, so I booked it up grab that box, dropped it off at the room, drank water and ate a protein cookie, washed up a bit — didn’t shower for a second time, but the thought occurred to me — and changed the now-smelly tshirt I had on for a fresh one. Wouldn’t save me the rest of the day as it was sunny and warmer than Thursday, but one does what one can. I popped in somewhat casually to check out a few minutes of De Mannen Broeders, which is Colin H. van Eeckhout from Amenra and Broeder Dieleman, both also performing solo at some point in the weekend, I believe. Well, Eeckhout definitely was, since his double-duty solo set was next after De Mannen Broeders finished, in the same room.

Before either Dieleman or van Eeckhout came out, a choir sang. I stuck around long enough to see them depart and the two principals, as well as a piano player on a baby grand, take up the vocal duties. It was moody and introverted, but still ‘folk’ in the way of folk music as human expression of humanity. Accordingly, somebody farted. All told, I was there for maybe 15 minutes, and then I realized Messa was on in a few over at the Main Stage, about to bring their new album, The Spin (review here), to life before an anxious throng of an audience.

In the interest of honesty, it was the photo pit of the weekend I was most dreading and I was right. But that’s why I’ve been carrying around the big lens this whole time. Messa came out after their intro and dove into the record with poise and flow, and as it was my first time seeing them — not the fault of any lack of touring on their part, mind you — to witness the charisma and performance first-hand, never mind the stylistic innovation of the songs themselves, they left no question as to how Metal Blade Records got on board for the release. They sounded like an idea whose time had come. It was heavy, lovely, sad and bold in kind, and though The Spin had only been out for a week, the room was ready for it.

Standing in the hallway, I ran into Lee. We had a quick debate about whether Messa were metal or not — I’m in the ‘pro’ camp — and eventually landed on a kind of goth metal. I might throw the word progressive in there, if only to account for the stupid amount of talent in the band. I went in the back downstairs for the end of Messa and had a little break before I needed to be anywhere, which I used to sit on ass and look at the rest of the day. I knew I wanted to finish out with Gnod and White Hills up the road at Koepelhal, so I decided to make my way there and settle in. I’d been back and forth already, but was in no rush. Found a sun-adjacent shady spot and parked for a few to watch the world go by.

I brought my sunglasses on this trip, but the trouble is I like them and I don’t think I’ve ever worn a pair at a festival anywhere on the planet and had that pair make it from beginning to end. To live in the now, or to squint. That was the (dumb) question.

The tradeoff for being awake was antsiness. I had a really good spot, but after about 10 minutes, I started getting itchy, got up and left. Where was I headed? To food, it turned out. I had thought I was going to go the photo pit for Envy on the 013 Main Stage, but my body took me downstairs for some chicken instead. Pounded that in all of three minutes, downed and refilled my water bottle, and by then Envy were on. The photo pit was going, but on a whim I decided to revert to my original intention, which was to see Pygmy Lush at The Engine Room, back up the block at the Koepelhal. So I got my back and forth in, but also food, which was solid strategy because I missed lunch. There was still a lot of day to go.

I didn’t know Pygmy Lush at all, either personally or musically, but the Virginian outfit are friends of a friend and I think mostly if not entirely comprised of members from pg.99, who were also on the bill, so on a day where nothing I’d thus far seen I’d ever seen before — that’s Ontaard and Throwing Bricks, De Mannen Broeders, Messa and Envy — it made sense to keep the thread going. Not even one of them I’d seen. I’m not trying to paint myself like generally I’m Mr. Watchedeverybandever, because I’m not and I haven’t, but such days for me are rarer than not at a festival.

Not lost on me that that thread occurred to me while I stopped for the first time today to really take a purposeful break, as I did sitting and waiting for Pygmy Lush l. It gave me a frame in which to place the day, and even though my one remaining must for Roadburn Friday — Gnod and White Hills — was comprised of two acts I’d seen individually, their ‘Drop Out’ collaboration would give me a chance to appreciate their work in a new way, and was something that had never happened on stage before. So, close enough for me. A whole day of musical first exposures. What a gift to get.

Pygmy Lush were not without tonal presence, but we’re coming from a mellow place in terms of spirit, and with three guitarists, two with vocals, the songs had texture and melody and were thoughtful in the delivery of both. Not uptempo, but affirming in a fragile way. They had no merch and said so, warned the crowd when there were two songs left, and were laid back on the stage, which made it all the more human as they unfurled contemplative Americana with intermittent fuller breakouts that filled the space otherwise purposely left open in the sound. A little shuffle, a little push, but I’m the era of vibes, they were one, and I was glad to have made the walk back to Koepelhal. They finished about as loud as they got and the place went off. I watched the whole set.

This morning, back at the office of the 013, we put a headline on the blurbs that went out with the day’s picks. I had a few, Lee, the esteemed José Carlos Santos, whose bibliography is intimidating but who is decidedly not a dick, Walter, and Dan Pietersen, who writes for Lee. Too many dudes by any measure, but it was sort of a last-minute thing anyway. The headline we ended up going with was, ‘The Sonic Journey Continues,’ and absolutely that’s kind of corny. We knew that when we went with it, but being here, especially the way my Friday had panned out, the cliché feels pretty well earned, and I’m not sure I would want to say it another way. Because there is a certain amount of buying in you have to do as an audience member. If you’re going to stand there cross-armed and cynical, you’ve already missed the point of coming to Roadburn. Shit yeah, be on that sonic journey. At the end of this weekend we’re all going to go back to lives, jobs, families and/or situations that involve various combinations of all of the above. This time is precious and scant. Why let yourself miss it?

Yeah, said the guy who had eight real-life hours of sleep last night. I know. But let part of my holding onto the moment be appreciating that as well as part of what’s made my experience of the day possible. Surely I wouldn’t have the energy for all this navelgazing if I was poorly rested.

In the years since Roadburn started putting bands at the Koepelhal — there is a part of me for whom it’s still a novelty, but it’s been a while by now — you’ve been able to cross from the Engine Room to The Terminal without leaving the building, and the merch was set up between. This year it’s under construction. Merch is elsewhere right down the sidewalk, and you walk outside and around the corner of the building to get to The Terminal. I have to think that makes lines easier to manage, but it can be surprising to walk out into bright daylight. I guess my inner goth was shocked after Pygmy Lush. Spoiler though: there is no inner goth.

Said the robot voice: “Thank you. It is time to take you to paradise. It is a cold, black paradise. Thank you.” This was how Zombie Zombie introduced the penultimate song they would play. They were killer. Total switch in spirit from Pygmy Lush into krautrocking weirdo psychedelic techno with live drums — sometimes two of the three members would be playing them on opposite sides of the stage, and a bit of cosmic sax early, but an unrepentant danciness at the heart of it all. You could tag them as experimental in form, since that’s almost certainly part of what they do, but their songs, though largely instrumental but for the what came through the robo-effect mic, and that was fine, because while space is dark and endless, it’s also constantly in motion in all directions at once according to the math.

Zombie Zombie weren’t quite ‘dark energy’-level powernerds, but the movement was essential just the same. The earlier dance party gave way to more of a build as they moved through their 50-minute set — loaded with temporal distortions as it was — and I went to stand next to the soundboard to take it all in, the throb of bass in wub wub wub thud thud thud, the video behind them raining code like The Matrix used to do. With a higher synth drone and low pulsing beat, a pickup on the drums and strong notion of being all-in for the far-out, and they had people dancing the entire time. It wasn’t aggressive and it wasn’t threatening unless you’re the genre status quo, but they were heavy in a different way than anything I’ve seen this weekend if not ever, and no less so for all that fun.

There was any half an hour before Human Impact went on, and I did find a way between the two rooms from the back of The Terminal. Easy enough. Sat in the photo pit for a quiet few, fell down a hole on my phone and wrote while the band did a line check. They’ve been around at least since the pandemic — I’m not a huge noise rock guy, but I don’t know if you get to be into underground heavy anything in the New York metro area (where I live) and not respect the shit out of Unsane, and Chris Spencer’s involvement in Human Impact was what first grabbed my attention about the band. I haven’t covered everything they’ve done, but with Eric Cooper from Made Out of Babies on bass, who I remember going to see play in Brooklyn the better part of 20 years ago, Cop Shoot Cop’s Jim Coleman on keyboard and Jon Syverson from Daughters on drums, I don’t think I’d be the first to call them super in the group sense, but onstage the impression was far different from the egotism that designation implies.

A bleak, not-inaccurate portrayal of now in music, Human Impact fused noise rock and industrial sounds and atmospheres, were vivid in message and heft, sometimes raging but not all the time, and when the keys and riffs diverged, they seemed to hit that much harder upon coming back together. Cooper mostly backed Spencer’s vocals, but with some input from Coleman as they pushed toward the dark noise apocalypse that was promised but never materialized in the ’90s when some of the same formula was put to much worse use by far too many bands. In Human Impact, the clash of organic and inorganic was resonant, and the aggression seethe was palpable on stage, in no small part because they threw it at you from there and it would be hard to miss. The finish — I didn’t know the title but did recognize the crush — was like grim concrete.

My night would close as planned, with Gnod and White Hills at The Terminal. At a fest this broad, you can make your own way, find your sound and your people. Ideally, anyhow. Gnod Drop Out With White Hills was the official billing, with the ‘Drop Out’ in reference to the collaborative album NYC’s preeminent psych freaks and Gnod, from Salford, UK, who surely are keeping themselves busy these days saying no to the psycho right-wing capitalist fascist industrial death machine, as they once put it. I was there for the line check and even that was hypnotic. Chat Pile were about to go on for a secret show I saw in the TMSQR app, but nah.

With Ego Sensation’s persistent tom and snare as the beating heart of the proceedings, Gnod and White Hills didn’t so much drop out as they did force one to question whether they were ever in to begin with. I did my best with the camera in the lights and fog early in the set — photographic evidence of alien life would be quite a coup for a middle-aged blogger — but whatever. I was honestly more concerned with watching them than taking pictures. Crazy, I know.

Builds of synth along with the guitars of Dave W. and Gnod’s Paddy Shine gave a sense of expanse with the bass crying the groove alongside the drums, and by the time vocals came in, it was a genuine churn, with a depth of mix that came through even by the side of the stage, let alone over in back. Entrancing heavy psych from masters of the form, in a collab that goes back at least a decade, tearing holes in the universe together on stage for the first time. Something special. I don’t know how many times I even said that today, but start to finish, that’s what it was. Careening and cascading, the joint project rode my day out on a chariot with a wizard painted on the side, and scorched the ground beneath them like rockets at takeoff. I’ve done a lot of really stupid shit in my life. I’m not a particularly good person. I’m not kind. But I had to look around me as the one where they kept going “unified…” hit its comedown and understand that whatever I’ve made worse about the planet during my time on it, I’d done something right if I was standing there.

I went back to the room to finish out the night, sort photos, etc. I had done more back and forth than I’d intended throughout the day and was exhausted with work to do, but no regrets whatsoever for how Friday panned out. Hard to believe there are two more days of Roadburn left.

Thanks for reading. More pics after the jump.

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Not too much wandering for today, but I did check out the Archiving Heaviness showcase downstairs at the 013 full of the cultural detritus of past editions. There were even a couple old Weirdo Canyon Dispatch issues in there. It’s nice to think of that as being a part of this whole thing when it was. It was a ‘zine in the truest sense of being a labor of love, and apart from the fact that it was about the fest, I think that’s what tied it most into the fold of Roadburn.

I missed the opening of the art gallery by minutes, but got to see Walter say a few words to the first-timers meeting, welcoming them to the festival and encouraging them to interact with each other, go off schedule and wander, and so on. I also signed the guestbook. The meeting was downstairs at the 013 at the bar near the Archiving Heaviness displays. Walter’s right, of course, about all of it, and it’s the most Roadburn thing ever that the guy who started the fest would take time 25-plus years later to greet the people who’ve never been here before. Roadburn is a lot. It can be overwhelming. Walter radiates a warmth and kindness few people know. When he welcomes you, you stay welcomed.

Xiu Xiu were going on up at the Koepelhal, on the The Terminal stage, but I hadn’t had endnote half a meal since Tuesday, so I grabbed a few slices of kaas and some greens for nutritional reconciliation. Lee and I had come to the office this morning to put some shortb text in the TMSQ app that has the schedule and all that info, and that went quickly enough that I’d gone back to the hotel to sit quietly for a bit, nod off, answer email, etc. I was dragging before food. Headache, a little nauseous. But the thing about Roadburn is no matter how crowded it gets, there are always pockets and places where you can be. If it feels like the whole world is in one place and the line’s out the door and it feels like too much, all you ever have to do is step back, realize that, and find a corner, or a chair, or a bench, whatever it is, and take the minute you need.

For me, that’s usually up on the balcony of the 013, though of course there are times where that’s packed as well. You make it work.

In the main hall, Costin Chioreanu’s animated film ‘The Hunter’ screened to open the day. Oranssi Pazuzu were soon to go on to perform last Fall’s Muuntautuja in its entirety. The one led very well into the other. I remember when Oranssi Pazuzu were here last, circa 2012 or thereabouts — Archiving Heaviness has a wall outside Koepelhal with all the years’ lineups printed on it; I should check that — they were at Het Patronaat, and it was a very big deal. Line down the block. Good to know the ensuing decade-plus hasn’t dulled the reception. I took one song’s worth of pictures in the photo pit, and made my way up to the balcony, because when engaging with intermittently furious groundbreaking cosmic experimentalist black metal, I’ll take the bird’s eye view anytime.

No doubt I was in the minority among the room for not knowing the album, but I was fine hearing a thing for the first time and appreciating the unexpected twists that have helped the band become a generational presence, like the intro to the first song sounding like Nine Inch Nails’ “Mr. Self-Destruct,” or how prone they were to locking in a bigger groove when not channeling dissonance or shred, or, more likely both. I don’t know that they’ll ever be my ‘thing’ as far as that goes, but that didn’t keep it from being awesome.

Spent a few minutes in my own head sitting upstairs on the balcony. Shit self-talk, just tearing myself down because I worry about THINGS and it’s a terrifying moment. Thinking of seeing Dool on the big stage last year, feeling that empowerment resonating, was restorative. Oranssi Pazuzu are on a different trip entirely, and I didn’t expect the same experience twice because I’ve been to Roadburn before and I know better, but there was a sense of freedom conveyed alongside so much catharsis, and I tried my best to home in on that. Also this weird thing had been happening where every time I sat in a place for more than five minutes, no matter what else was going on or its volume level related to human tolerances, I started to fall asleep. I assure you that’s not a dig on the set.

Oranssi Pazuzu finished droned out and fair enough. I thought about popping over to the Next Stage for Toby Driver’s new trio, Alora Crucible, but there was a line outside the room by the time I got there, so I broke off downstairs for a water and then was back up to the Main Stage for the coming of Kylesa. I don’t know how many times I saw them during their ‘original run’ in various lineups and constructions of the band, mostly because I was drunk and it was a long time ago (having a archive of nearly every show I’ve seen in the last 16 years has its advantages in not relying on my memory; Kylesa and my affection for their work pre-date this site), but with Phillip Cope and Laura Pleasants reigniting the band now completed by journeyman metaller Roy Mayorga (Ministry, Stone Sour, Soulfly, etc.), who hits hard enough to remind you Kylesa once had two drummers, and NY-based artist John John Jesse (Nausea) on bass, they were a must-see for me. Something of a silly feeling, being nostalgic for the aughts, but it was 20 years ago. Brains are ridiculous.

Kylesa were last at Roadburn in 2010, but I missed them because volcano. One assumes the irony of “Keep moving/Don’t look back” as a signature hook at a reunion show isn’t lost on Kylesa, but never mind that shit, here comes Mongo, and in this case, Mongo is the guitar tones of Pleasants and Cope at the forefront of this band. And hey, sometimes a path brings you somewhere you’ve been before. With punk in their metallic hearts as it always was, Kylesa renewed their individual blend of elements, influences and craft, dug into some of the rawer ends of their catalog as well as the later and proggier fare, and though it was their first Euro show in more than a decade, I don’t think it took long for them to remind the room who they were and what they were about. That space was packed and rightly so. Kylesa was always just a little different than everybody else, sound-wise. Cope and Pleasants sharing vocals was always part of it, for sure, but for me it goes to the shape of their riffing and their ability to take what seem like straightforward ideas like “here’s a fuggin’ thrash riff in your face,” and beat them into more complex shapes.

As to what their going-forward plans might be, I haven’t a clue, but there’s life in them, and where I can think of an act like Jesus and Mary Chain, who were here for a reunion last year — different band and context, but still — and it felt pretty hollow. Kylesa, on the other hand, were always about the soul and the charge put into their songs, and they remain so. And the lineup, in the parlance of 2023, is fire. But of course it is. Nodding heads front to back. A mosh opened up. Dudes were dancing on the balcony. Hail hail.

They closed with “Running Red,” which, yes. I lurched my sad physicality up to Koepelhal when they were done to catch Faetooth at The Terminal. The Los Angeles three-piece self-tag as ‘Fairy Doom,’ and I wouldn’t argue if I could. Bringing together doomed nod, sludge nod and, indeed, some more nod, their dual-vocal approach moved between harsh and cleans, and the songs didn’t want for dynamic, but the overarching impression was heavy and dug-in. I think this is their first time in Europe? I don’t know that, so don’t quote it, but yes I just checked and it’s true. Quote away, I guess. In any case, they drew a massive crowd to bask in the largesse of fuzz, and the darker shoegaze side of what they were doing was balanced by both the screams and the tonal heft. They didn’t look like a band to fuck with. Someone yelled out they were beautiful before they played and I was embarrassed to be a dude. Cringe shit.

Speaking of, walking back to the 013 after Faetooth, there was a street preacher in a tshirt with a cross on it yelling about god in Dutch. He started in on me and I let him go a few seconds before I told him I didn’t even speak his language and to fuck off. He switched to English to thank me and say god bless you, to which my shouted reply was “only if he gives me a handjob first — again, fuck you.” I could live a thousand years and there would be no time in my life for that fucking garbage. I was completely lucid. I didn’t hit him.

An abrasive noise wash after that kind of adrenaline spike turned out to be just the thing, and after breaking a kick drum pedal right off the bat, like, with the first kick, The Body and Dis Fig tapped electronic and organic malevolence. I knew it would be heavy. But feeling the bass wub in my chest was nonetheless affecting. There was a big part of me that was ready to call it a night — arguably it was still evening — but I was scared to go back to the hotel and crash too hard, lest I sleep then instead of overnight. I had screwed up Wednesday so much in how I did and didn’t sleep that I’d been feeling it all day, but the lonely conscious fragment of my mind knew the room was a trap. Brutal noise, drone, thud and melodic-vocal cutthrough it is. Roadburn means I’m lucky to be alive. I can sleep later. I hope.

I hid my face in my arms at one point to get away from the strobe. They were droning at the time and yeah, I kinda nodded off. That’s how it was today. Adrenaline and lots of coffee were a help, likewise good music, but at no point in the day did I feel like I was at my best or even functioning beyond the basics and yelling at that jeezaroo. I know that’s not rock and roll. It’s not cool. It’s not positive. It’s not hey I’m here and let’s be an influencer and here’s some content isn’t it contenty? It’s real life. If you’re going to be a lifer at this shit or anything else, including just life itself, some days are going to be easier than others. Did not the Ben Ward sayeth, “Some you win, some you lose?” Well I won today outright, even if I had to pull myself by my collar to do it.

Back at the room afterward, I put in a video call to home, got to talk to The Patient Mrs. and The Pecan, which was a treat, I’d gotten myself one more espresso from the machine in the lobby of the hotel, of which I drank about half in a single sip and poured out the rest. Yes, absolutely for all my Nespresso homies. You know who you are, you classy bastards.

Sorting photos and finishing the writing were precursors to screwing off and going to bed, so that was the order of it. Tomorrow and Saturday nights are more packed for me, so resting while I can while my body gave me fewer and fewer choices in the matter anyway made sense. In the end, I slept like a bastard for like nine hours, which I very much hope brings me closer to whatever vision of ‘caught up’ might apply.

Thanks for reading. A couple more pics after the jump.

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