The years, it turns out, are not making me any less weird, as I sit with my eyes closed at the Frankfurt Airport and build an altar to the queen of the gorgons while typing. It was that kind of weekend, as the best of them are. The sedentary grooving to Ruff Majik’s last record included, this has been the least stressful part of this trip. I got picked up at the hotel at 7AM, slept in the sprinter van on the way from Siegen, got through security and all the rest of it in ace time, and arrived at gate B44 after a not unpleasant stroll to the ass end of the airport. Some sharp not-quite-bacon porcine smell coming from the coffee/breakfast counter over yonder, and it’s a little warm, but if these are my biggest complaints — and they’re not, but we’re keeping it light — I’m doing okay. That’s the bottom line.
I was back and forth on wrapping up the Freak Valley coverage like this or just leaving it with “thanks thanks thanks thanks” in the last post since basically that’s all I want to say in the end anyhow, but on some level I feel like a few words of explanation are owed.
I know I mentioned my mother’s knee replacement on Wednesday, and I told at least 80 percent of the people I spoke to at the AWO grounds in Netphen about going from the hospital to JFK Airport in New York after they rolled my mom in a wheelchair to the back-part of the hospital where they do the real knock-you-out-and-butcher-you parts of medicine — I’ve been back there; the tears welling in my eyes tell me I’m still not over it — and I am fiercely proud of her for doing something that I think in a couple weeks even she’ll say she should’ve done years ago, but the background emotional radiation of that was very much a factor in my Freak Valley 2024 experience. It’s part of what I’ll remember about the last few days, to say the very least.
But the way it happened was also somewhat disorienting, since the operation was scheduled for last week, but got bumped because she got sick, and because of the Memorial Day holiday in the US — which is bullshit, yes; if my country cared about its military, it would be an institution of science for the public good instead of an overfunded oppressive imperialist tool blah blah blah; rethink all policing — we didn’t know until Tuesday morning what time she’d be going in Wednesday. And if it was going to be the afternoon, that would mean I wouldn’t be able to do the trip. So here I am over the weekend before, back and forth with Jens Heide, who runs FVF, saying I don’t know if I’m gonna make it, saying give away my room, no wait don’t, stressed and harried and overwhelmed. Factor in the six-hour time different and the fest didn’t even know for sure I was coming until less than 24 hours before I was due to board the plane.
Even as Full Earth went on Thursday afternoon to kick off Freak Valley 2024 in righteously progressive style, part of me was still back there, or still on the plane not sleeping, or trying to figure out why the train smelled like pee (spoiler: it was pee), whatever it was. But while I didn’t end up getting it tattooed on my person, my mantra that it’ll all be okay when the music starts held true. I don’t know what it is. Something about being in front of a stage, the blast of volume, that kind of electric surge; I need it. I tend to get my doses in bulk these days, and there are ups and downs to that like everything, but I am so incredibly thankful to have this music in my life, to have found it or been found by it, and that it is such a part of who I am. It’s not escapism when it’s your fucking life. I am fortunate to be able to do what I want to do, how and when and why and, especially in cases like this, where I want to do it.
I don’t have the kind of brain that always automatically moves the muscles of my face to smile when I’m happy to see somebody, a friend or acquaintance or even my own family. But that doesn’t mean I’m not glad to see you. Or if I’m distracted, or in a hurry somewhere, it’s just how I am. All that stuff that when you’re young you think you’ll figure out when you’re older? Well, I’m 42 now, and remain flailing in so many regards. As a person, in my body, definitely as a parent, as a husband, as a writer. I’ve put everything I have for 15 years of my life into this project and I still get condescended to as the ‘stoner rock blogger’ as if genre wasn’t the root of innovation in art, but typos aside — and I’ll probably be finding them for years in the posts from this weekend; hazards of taking notes on my phone, sorry about that — I’m proud of the work I do here. On a certain level, I have to be.
Thank you for reading, is the point, and if we talked at the fest and I seemed out of it, I probably was. I can’t be anyone other than who I am at this point, and frankly, being myself requires performance enough. I’m sorry if that was the case, and yeah, I do feel like I disappoint people who meet me in person after knowing me from the site, social media, whatever, but I’m doing my best. At the heart of it all, I appreciate you being a part of this thing if you are.
I’m gonna take tomorrow (which might be today by the time this is posted) and get caught up on writing and some stuff that I’ve been holding back while here, maybe work on a Conan bio I need to bang out or those Lowrider/Elephant Tree liner notes that are so long overdue.
Rain’s back on early in the day. I forewent Doom Yoga and hotel breakfast in favor of sleeping an extra hour. Time will tell on that choice. My head is swimming in last-day logistics; how I’m getting back to the hotel tonight, how and when I’m getting to Frankfurt Airport tomorrow, on and on. So yes, wet and scatterbrained. One or the other would be enough on its own. Poncho may yet make an appearance.
A few people have asked how my mother is doing. First, thank you for reading. I feel like I’ve transposed the haphazardly way this trip ended up being undertaken onto a kind of overarching mania of the experience, but one way or the other, it’s still restorative. She’s recovering from having her knee replaced on Wednesday, is walking, had started physical therapy. These things are months in the healing, but she’s strong and inspiring.
Though it shows little sign of it at the moment, the rain is supposed to stop this afternoon. We’ll see. I was sitting before the start of the show in the smoking tent; the wafting of joint smoke inexplicably cut with tobacco as is the method. Not my thing. I barely had the batteries in the camera when Volker took the stage and it was time to roll, so take that, last-day blues. Good thing my new Freak Valley hoodie is warm.
Sorry in advance for the typos.
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Splinter
Thank you to Splinter for being the day’s reminder that everything’s okay when the music starts. The Netherlands based classic-heavy four-piece fronted by Douwe Truijens had the Hammond, the boogie, enough sleaze in some of their lyrics to feel like a #metoo waiting to happen (looking at you, “Soviet Schoolgirl,” et al), but there’s no denying the life in their performance. Rain pouring down on the early crowd, Truijens was nonetheless on fire strutting and dancing around the stage with moves drawn from an arena-ready playbook, plus shorty-shorts for the last song because when you’re doing a thing, you go for it. They were tight in addition to putting on a show, and “Every Circus Needs a Clown” from last year’s Role Models (review here) was a highlight in presentation and from-speaker force to go with the conceptual foundation of what they do. That is to say, they’re a band with a plan. And that’s not a negative at all. The songs are catchy and uptempo, fun if you can get on board with euphemism, and it’s over-the-top in just the way it’s supposed to be. Echoing the energetic start of yesterday, pushing it further, Splinter made a field on a cold, rainy afternoon feel like a sweaty nightclub, and for that, one can only be grateful.
Gravy Jones
Uh oh, I think I might dig this band. Another full-size Hammond on stage, cult-ish, classic-ish riffy vibe. I recall digging the Norwegian four-piece’s 2018 debut, Funeral Pyre (review here), for the quirk it brought to genre tropes, but the apparently-don’t-do-this-all-the-time outfit were more cohesive on stage, solid in groove, hinting or maybe more with that organ toward retroist dark-boogie, and on point in the interplay of the keys and guitar. The bluesy but not caricature vocals specifically reminded me of Buffalo, but if Gravy Jones only want you for your body, they’re almost certainly nefarious in that intent. At least some of what they played was taken from an impending follow-up to Funeral Pyre, as was announced from the stage, and wherever/whenever, I take that as good news in terms of such a thing existing at all. Because I just might end up a fan of this band. You know how that happens? Hear a thing. “Oh that’s cool.” Six years pass. You see them. “Oh shit that’s cool.” It was kind of like that watching them close out with “Mountains of Madness.” If you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go see if they’ve got anything going at the merch.
Deathchant
My prevailing impression of L.A.’s Deathchant holds firm from seeing them last August at SonicBlast in Portugal (review here), and to save you the time following that link, I’ll just say it’s thar they kick ass. Two guitars that can lean into Thin Lizzy harmonies or thrash out at will, doomly in the title-track of Thrones, which they released last Fall, but gnarly and ripping at any speed, it’s like they play both the Heavy and the Metal sides of heavy metal, but they’re not doing some bullshit disaffected-white-dude aggro thing either. They get on stage, hit it, and groove with tonal presence regardless of a given part’s intensity, drawing from metal and rock on the way, charged and precise, but not so clear in sound as to lose their edge. Perhaps they’re subject to the perils of the band in-between, when it comes to style: too metal for some rockers, too rock for some metallers, but shit, I like bands who don’t fit (also bands who do; in no way does it have to be one or the other, remember), and they played a yet-untitled shouty new song and decided on the spot to call it “Freak Valley.” It ruled and I hope they keep the name. They should probably also have six or seven live records out by now, by rights. I’ll hope to see them again at Desertfest New York later this year.
Mouth
It didn’t take Mouth long to reroute the momentum from Deathchant’s raw Motõrheaded thrust to suit their proggier psychedelic purposes, and the sun came out for them, which can only be called appropriate. I did some liner notes recently for their Vortex Redux semi-reissue LP, and well, I’ll tell you truly, they’re not a band I ever really expected to see live. I mean, it’s a universe of infinite possibility, right? So a thing always could happen, but that doesn’t mean it will. And they were so much fun. Into the music, not trying to convince you that being on stage and playing their songs isn’t the most fun thing in the world. A positive vibe, energy front to back. There was one point where guitarist/vocalist Christian Koller went on his back on the stage while playing a solo and all I could think about was how much of John Dwyer’s dried-up spit from last night must be on there, but beyond that, not a worry in the world while watching them, and their affinities for ’60s psych, ’70s prog and multiple eras of heavy rock came through with poise and passion alike. The keyboard and snare jabs in “Into the Lines” and the slew of builds throughout were exciting and well crafted, and they put everything they had into the show. They weren’t a surprise for me, but it’s kind of a relief sometimes when you see a band you’ve followed for a while and they validate the reasons you liked them in the first place. Mouth did that and improved the weather. That’s a high point in any day.
Black River Delta
Swedish mellow heavy blues rock. Oldschool in ideology, modern in tone. It always takes me a second to stop listening for the stoner to show up when Freak Valley breaks out the bluesier stuff, but Black River Delta did well in the dinnertime slot. And immediately upon thinking of it as that, I realized I was starving. No goulash, but a vegan curry — no I’m not vegan, but probably should be, not the least because it would allow me to subsist exclusively on a variety of homeground nut butters — was the thing. Green beans, carrots, broccoli, onions and peppers of course, but most crucially there were four — yes, I counted, it was four — bites of cauliflower. Cauliflower! For upwards of six minutes while Black River Delta nestled into one comfortable flow after another, I found paradise. By the time another 15 minutes had passed, they’d be finished with their sharply composed and executed fare, delivered smoothly and suited to the style bringing together contemporary and classic as so many here have, but in their own way. And soon after that, the rain would start again, but since it was between bands and Black River Delta were so classy anyhow, I won’t hold it against them. It poured for a minute there, though.
Godsleep
And stopped doing so about 35 seconds after I ran away from the photo pit to get away from the deluge coming down from the roof overhang in front of the stage while Greece’s Godsleep were getting going. I was curious what series of circumstances brought a Rutgers football t-shirt into vocalist Amie Makris’ life — I got a MFA from Rutgers Newark, and my wife did her Ph.D. in New Brunswick; you don’t see a lot of Newjerseynalia in other countries [edit: I asked her later at the merch area and she said she got it from her sister] — but the shirt didn’t last much longer than the rain, and Godsleep’s material had so much push and sweep that the thought was in and out of my head like some kind of asshole who just flies in for the festival and then is gone. They slowed down a bit for the delightfully ’90s-reminiscent “Saturday,” which was a highlight of last Spring’s all-over-the-place-and-only-more-rad-for-it Lies to Survive (review here), but as that record will demonstrate, there’s no lack of variety in what they do regardless of tempo. Not being exclusively sad, slow and miserable, there are aspects of Godsleep’s aesthetic I can relate to more than others, but almost any in-genre boundary pushing is good news as far as I’m concerned, “Permanent Vacation” sort of bridges worlds between explosion-happens-now and more methodical whathaveyou. I found that their harsher moments were complement rather than contrast to the odd bit of desert riffing and sundry other lessons in kicking ass on display. Split LP with Ruff Majik post-haste, please. Both with some screaming, while I’m making requests. Dizzying but undizzied, intermittently furious, deceptively intricate, and rad. They finished by bringing it all back around to the riffs and were better than the veggie curry. Yup. That’s the review.
Speck
Mellow molten instrumentalism from Vienna trio Speck, whose expanses soothed with considerably more cosmic warmth than is offered by, say, actual space. It was my first time seeing the band, whose second album, Eine Gute Reise, came out last Fall, and it took them a while to get going, sure enough, but more, it took me a couple minutes to warm up to it, but all of a sudden I looked up and they were killing it. They’d continue to do so even as a torrential, bucket-style downpour took hold, adding another layer of soak to the already saturated everything and causing a scramble for shelter for some and a very pointed not-scramble from others, which I can respect. Rockpalast has a small tent set up outside the production truck backstage with a tv showing the livestream feed, right next to Lulu’s Garden, and I took advantage of that to wait out the deluge. It didn’t last — it couldn’t or it’d be Freak Lake Festival — but it was harder even than the rain before, and if you were caught in it, you know that’s saying something. I eventually made my way further back to sit someplace drier, but listened as Speck brought their set-long build to its payoff, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the livestream mics picked up the sound of the rain pounding down. If so, all the more reason they should make it into a live record. People mud-moshing like a hippie version of whatever Woodstock that was.
Amyl and the Sniffers
Thrills and such from brash, hard-hitting Aussie punk rockers Amyl and the Sniffers. When they were announced as a headliner, it kind of had me scratching my head, but obviously seeing them you get it in a different way. Their frontwoman, Amyl, came out in an overcoat and stripped it off to reveal her undies while singing a line I interpreted as “I like power,” so yes, if that’s what it was, then clearly. Not gonna take away from the statement or the volume that coincided, but on my coolest day I was never cool enough to be a punker, and today’s certainly not my coolest day. Still, can’t really argue with the ass kicking meted out, and after a certain point, loud groove is loud groove. They shouted out countrymen outfit C.O.F.F.I.N., who played the other day, which was nice, en route to the next onslaught. Rain stopped and started, as it has for most of the day.
I just kind of hung around and let both the noise and the water falling from the sky — because this planet is incredible and to our present knowledge completely unique in the universe in being able to support life and water is why and we treat it like shit; by the way I’m getting on a plane tomorrow morning, so I’m not indemnifying myself, rest assured; if you’re alive to read this you’re complicit there — wash over me while making the rounds saying a few quick goodbyes/hope-to-see-you-next-years. The harsh reality of needing to head to the airport early tomorrow has set in, so better to take care of that earlier than to feel bad about it later. There are a lot of very nice people here, and they are kind to me, and talk to me. I don’t have the kind of brain that always translates being happy to see someone into a smile on my face, but even if you just said hi this weekend, please know it was appreciated. I guess I’m saying goodnight there, too. Guess I got sidetracked talking about Amyl and the Sniffers. Okay.
Kadavar
The one and only. Because as many imitators as they’ve spawned, Kadavar on a level of their own. I knew to expect good things from their still-relatively-recent four-piece incarnation from seeing them play last summer at the aforementioned SonicBlast (review here), and god damn, they’re about as headliner as you get when they take the stage at something like this. They’ve been recording — for what, I don’t know, but I’ve got my hopes — rather than the old tour-tour-tour thing, while it was killer to hear Lupus Lindemann up on stage speak to the crowd in his (and most of their, I assume) native language. He, Tiger, Dragon and Jascha Kreft — last I checked, the ‘new guy’ hadn’t chosen a spirit animal — took the stage to defy the supposition that rock and roll has no more heroes, and while they’re a professional band putting on a show for an audience, on doing so, they throw down like no one else in this thing. “Doomsday Machine” into “Come Back Life” at the start? Come on. I hung around for a few songs, which was a choice facilitated by either the rain mostly stopping or my new Freak Valley hoodie just being soaked enough that I didn’t notice, then made my way out with more than a tinge of sadness at it being over, but secure in the knowledge I’ll see Kadavar again this summer, barring disaster, and as I arrived at the hotel after hailing a cab like the New York metro, throw-your-arm-out-just-at-the-right-time-to-catch-the-driver, it occurred to me to put on the Rockpalast stream. So I got to watch “I Fly Among the Stars” and so on that way. Scrolling back told me I missed “Black Sun” and the clap-along to “Die Baby Die” while in transit, which is a little sad, but I’m grateful for what I got.
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The same applies to the festival as a whole. I’m grateful for everything I saw and heard — whether it was in accord with my everyday listening habits or not — over the last three days, grateful to Jens for having me over, for Falk watching out for me in the photo pit, to Alex, Marcus, Jamie, and Basti for the rides, and to you for reading any of it if you did. As she often is concerning a wide variety of subjects, The Patient Mrs. was right to give me the push out the door I needed. Such as I’m a duck, I’m a lucky one.
If I have time, I’ll do kind of an epilogue tomorrow, if not, probably Friday, which is probably what I’d prefer to allow for a little actual-processing/distance. We’ll see. Either way, thank you again. More pics after the jump.
I got to the AWO grounds where Freak Valley is held in time to pound a cup of coffee, fill my water bottle and head to the small stage where The Mad Hatter played yesterday evening to do some Doom Yoga. If I was a completely different kind of person, I would study and teach heavy yoga classes tied in with sonic-led meditation. There’s so much room in so much of this music that you could close your eyes and shavasana yourself into oblivion. The stretch and a few quiet minutes were appreciated in the moment, and I suspect that as the day wears on, they will only be more so.
There was a mulch delivery overnight that should cut down on some of the mud factor today, at least at the start, but the weather this far is also better; warmer, some sun but not too much. This makes my intended Saturn-logo hoodie purchase less mandatory, but I’ll get one anyway. Speaking of money, I texted that cab driver who drove me from the train station yesterday and asked if I could PayPal him or something since even after I found a cash machine — not at a gas station, as they commonly are where I come from — I couldn’t take out any money, I assume because I already spent it all existing in 2024, for which there are uncounted ‘premium’-style charges.
But Doom Yoga — which also happens tomorrow; I will hope to be there again — ruled, and finished just as Volker was doing the introduction for Dead Air; his baritone “liebe freunde” was an answer to the gong that finished the yoga session, in its way. Okay, time for the next thing. I didn’t even have the batteries in my camera yet. Welcome to day two.
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Dead Air
I had listened and written a bit about Dead Air ahead of coming here, and they were both younger and less punk — new song “Three Quarters” notwithstanding– in their presentation than I’d been expecting, so clearly my research skills need some work. Today is kind of all over the place sound-wise — not a complaint — but clearly the intention was to kick it off with, well, a kick, and Dead Air provided that without question. They’re a new-ish band, not too much out, etc., and you could get a sense of onstage as well, but that’s also a specific kind of electricity that a more established act can’t really offer, because even when they’re new to you, they’re not new to themselves, and that was part of enjoying their set too. You can’t fake that, and it is a moment that doesn’t come again in the life of any band. Given the potential in their sound, it will be interesting to hear what the next few years bring from them and how the punk (which is there, just not the sum-total of what they have to offer) and the heavy balance each other out as they take on tasks like a debut full-length and go on from there. But that they were a pleasant surprise despite the fact that I’d heard them before I take as a deeply positive sign of things to come.
Demonauta
Demonauta’s first time in Europe, apparently? I would have thought they’d made the trip sometime in the last 16 years, but I guess not. Either way, the Chilean three-piece were greeted warmly and by that I mean both people and the sun came out to celebrate the start of their set. I had been sitting for a few minutes in a little grove backstage with benches and a table where I’ve done a good bit of this writing that I’ll call Lulu’s Garden, because when I went there yesterday and asked if she minded my presence since it was just the two of us — private moments are rare at these things; sometimes you need or even just want one — herbanswe was a joking claim on it, “come, sit in my garden,” but the desert-style tone of Demonauta’s soundcheck was fuzzy and full enough to serve as clarion, and I wasn’t going to miss a chance that might not come again to catch them live. They manifest a bit of psychedelia along with all the groove-of-riff, which I took as a reminder to chill the fuck out. That was welcome and well-timed, as I had found myself restless in the shade of the smoking tent — too early in the day to smell that terrible; had to go — and needing a spot to breathe. I ended up watching the end of their set as Demonauta told the crowd they loved them before digging into mellow bassy fluidity and finding Kyussian push in an instrumental capper with bonus-extra proggy soloing, from a bench in the back, where it would have been easy to pass the rest of the day since I could see, hear and write all at once. Can’t do that on the swing set, you know. Genuine appreciation from the audience and band alike when they were done. It seemed to be, and I hope it was, worth the trip. For me, the takeaway is I have homework to do in getting to know 2022’s Low Melodies About Chaos better.
Stinking Lizaveta
They moved Cheshire Augusta’s drum riser — and at least while Stinking Lizaveta played, it was most definitely hers, despite Yanni Papadopoulos making an appearance up there once or twice, once with a flying leap off — to the front of the stage, and it was but the first of many “shit yeah” moments while they played. There’s no wrong answer for where to stand during a Stinking Lizaveta set except “anywhere else” but I was up front on the rail at stage left and Alexei Papadopoulos’ bass came through gorgeously. The likewise stalwart, brilliant and weird instrumental trio have been on tour over here for a bit, did the UK with Darsombra and I think are playing with Acid Mothers Temple next or in a couple days, but god damn, what a joy they are to watch and to hear. The sincerity of what they do, how much it’s theirs and how much they own it and embrace it and offer the crowd the chance to share in it — offer accepted, as regards the freaks in the valley — from the dizzying virtuoso twists to the punker spirit underlying it, they’re among the most positive extant outcomes of radical individualism I can’t think of in my mind, and creative with character and breadth that not only doesn’t let you down when they play, but that actively feels uplifting whether a given moment is loud, quiet, fast, slow, whatever. Alexei’s bass solo alone, never mind Yanni hopping off the stage to run his strings over the monitor and the guard rail. I’ve probably said this before and I can only hope to have the chance to say it again, but every festival needs Stinking Lizaveta, and before you start with, “really? even such-and-such?” the answer is still yes. You want to believe in the power of art to enrich your life? Listen to this fucking band.
Fuzzy Grass
All-smiles French heavy stoner blues seemed to hit just right with the crowd and the sunshine, and the first theremin of the festival felt like a thanks-for-showing-up bonus to give the boogie a bit of edge. Their 2023 album, The Revenge of the Blue Nut (review here) stood out, but the vibrancy that came from the stage was a different level entirely, and infectious, whether you were dancing or not. I bought some maybe-vegan sans-rice goulash and hung back for a while — I had scrambled eggs and some cheese with at the hotel, but it’s a long day and protein-plus-peppers didn’t seem like a terrible idea; served me well last year, and so on — as Fuzzy Grass headed toward wrapping up, and sat at one of the shared picnic tables over by the food truck area for a few restorative-despite-the-sauce-in-my-beard (also my shirt; someday I’ll learn how to be a person) moments, but I guess not much more than that in real-time since I made it back up before Fuzzy Grass were actually done. I feel like “spirited” isn’t a word often associated with any kind of heavy music or culture, but Fuzzy Grass’ take was at least that, with soulful vocals, metered groove and a friendly vibe that came across as organic I think mostly because it was.
Tō Yō
A deep dive into languid classic prog and psych, Tō Yō were among my most anticipated bands of the festival, and they did not disappoint. More subdued than not on average, they found a bit of push at the end of the set — briefly, right at the finish — but it was the exploration getting there that was the real highlight. Their debut album, Stray Birds From the Far East (review here), came out last year on King Volume Records, which is ears you can trust even if you don’t know what you’re getting, and was a soothing next-generation extrapolation on Japanese heavy psychedelia, patient and encompassing without overwhelming with their wash or getting lost in the purposeful meander. They drew — I don’t know if there are actually more people here today or if it’s just that the weather is nicer so there are more around — and rightfully so, not only because they trekked from Tokyo to play, but because of the places they went in terms of sound, whether it was that (still relative) blowout or the atmospheric breadth of the material from the album. They sounded like they could’ve played for four more hours and been fine. Might be fun sometime.
Dÿse
Specifically German thrills a-plenty from Berlin two-piece Dÿse, who had the biggest audience since Slomosa last night and treated said assembled masses to a noise rock so laden with quirk and intensity of thrust that you can only really call it progressive. They’ve been at it 20 years or so, and were obviously a known commodity to the singing-along throngs, but it was my first time seeing them and even not speaking the language I could tell they were a blast, if maybe not my thing. They reminded of the Melvins — who played here last year and also tore the place to shreds — in terms of the energy level, which yes, I think of as a compliment, and though I’m thoroughly ignorant of their work, there’s no stopping fun once it starts. It seemed likely that the intention behind putting them after Tō Yō was to lean into the contrast, if not outright shove it over — at one point I’m pretty sure I heard meowing? — and it worked because Dÿse owned the stage while they stood on it, had the crowd with them the whole time. Literal bouncing, like a video from Lollapalooza ’92 or something. It was a thing to see. And between you and me, I’m not gonna go chase down the entire Dÿse catalog and new Mr. Superfan from here on out, but I’m glad to have seen them. At least now I feel like I have some sense of what I’ve missed. Seriously. People went fucking nuts.
Daily Thompson
Snuck in a short changeover set on the small stage, which would’ve been awesome even if their new record, Chuparosa (review here), wasn’t so fresh in mind. I had seen the band show up a couple hours before, and I guess since they weren’t on the bill I assumed they were just here hanging out, but you’ve got 1000mods on the big stage line-checking, Dÿse just finished and here comes Daily Thompson to play “I’m Free Tonight” at the same spot where Doom Yoga when the doors opened. It was of course packed by the time I walked over, so I contented myself to listen to most of it from Lulu’s Garden, where the ladybug larvae have hatched, and to catch my breath before the final three acts of the night. Still, a happy surprise they’re here at all.
1000mods
A week and a half from now, when I still have 1000mods songs stuck in my head, you won’t hear me complain about it. They’re kind of an odd one for me to be sentimental about — they’re from Greece and I’m from New Jersey; it’s not like we hang out — but, well, I’ve been listening to them for about 14 years, and the way they’ve become such a landmark act, whether it’s here or when I saw them at Desertfest NYC last year (review here) or when I’ll see them again this summer at Bear Stone Festival in Croatia, they deliver, and I’ve yet to encounter them in a live setting where it was anything other than a pleasure to do so. As their last record hit during the pandemic, I’m dying to know what they’ll do next and where their ongoing progression will take them — because they’ve never put out the same record twice and never seemed like they wanted to — but for today it was just great to stand and watch them run through the set, to see people get into it, hands in the air, crowdsurfing, all that stuff. They’re one of very few acts I’d play for somebody who knows nothing about heavy rock and roll, and not just because the songs are catchy, but because they’re driven by and delivered with a passion that is unmistakable, as they were at Freak Valley. Sure bet and in a league of their own for what they do.
Alex Henry Foster
Including Foster himself, Alex Henry Foster played as a full six-piece band, The Long Shadows, featuring one drummer and a second kit, a keyboardist/saxophonist/laptopist/vocalist, two guitars in addition to Foster’s own, and a lone bassist. Clearly the former Your Favorite Enemies frontman puts texture into consideration in his work. After the first song, which featured the first bowed guitar of the weekend, Foster explained that he was supposed to play last year but had a medical crisis, then talked about being nervous and the community of the festival making him feel at home, and so on, and was very much the bandleader with a music stand, a shaker and other elements coming and going, keyed for resonance. A depth of arrangement was fair enough for material with such breadth, and the heavy-adjacent-but-not-beholden-to-genre post-emo progressivism was fluid in its reach and various builds, had a density of vibe, was expressive, but in the interest of honesty, something about it rubbed me the wrong way, whether it was too much or I was just tired. So I didn’t stick around long. Dude’s got a career, and I won’t talk shit (not that doing so would affect that career in any way) or belittle the complicated path that brought him to the Freak Valley stage, but I guess I wasn’t looking to be convinced. I went in back and sat for a bit, watched the campers coming and going, and that was fine. Fine. I went back out toward the end of the set and it had picked up, and Foster seemed like he meant every thank you he said, but I was still hearing 1000mods songs, so maybe I’m just too much the stoner rock blogger. Story of my life, to some degree.
Osees
It had been a long day well before Osees went on, but no denying the heavy psych rager that got underway as soon as they got started. I couldn’t hope to keep up with that kind of energy, but it was fun to watch. As will happen, the crowd thinned out some between front and back, but the John Dwyer-led, doubly-drummed troupe supernovaed through the set regardless, bombast and sharp turns and a feel that might’ve been madcap were it not so intentional. It was easier to find a place to sit, but I’ll really admit to being done before they were. I huddled in a corner and closed my eyes for a bit. I won’t call it sleep, but my phone was low in battery and I was more than spent in my limited social engagement resources — I was right to eat those eggs this morning — so with nothing but time until my ride back to the hotel in Siegen, I listened as Osees wove through effects-laced sprawl and intermittent out-the-airlock shove, ebbs, flows, ups, downs, more than a few sideways pivots. To my detriment I’m sure, I’ve never dug into their catalog and with 20-someodd LPs, I recognize I’d be about 18 records late in so doing, but I did my best to hang in as much as I could in the way I could when what I really needed was to be in bed. I’m not gonna complain. I’m here. I’m doing my best. I’m trying. Osees were fucking cool regardless, and Castle Face Records puts out awesome shit. There. I said a thing.
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Gonna leave it there, but I promise you I’m having a good time, even if I’m feeling somewhat obliterated by it all. I’ll hope to put up a wrap when it’s all over. I’m just trying to live it while I’m here as best I can. More pics after the jump. Thanks for reading.
So, hey. I’m at Freak Valley Festival. Not by much, admittedly. My general position is that until I’m standing (or preferably, casually reclining) in a place, I’m not convinced a thing that is maybe supposed to happen is going to pan out, but this trip was tenuous even by that standard. It’s Thursday. I flew out of NYC yesterday afternoon. I didn’t know for sure I’d be making the trip until Tuesday, and if I’d been able to cancel the flight and get a refund — which I couldn’t, because capitalism — I’d more likely have stayed home to be with my family as my mother recovers from having her knee replaced, also yesterday afternoon, which I was getting text updates about sitting on the plane waiting to take off. I’d have gotten them during the whole flight as well, but you had to pay for internet even just for basic phone signal — again, capitalism; the airline also randomly played commercials at one point during the flight, whether you were watching a movie or not; gross — but was able to find out after the flight landed how her evening went. I went from the hospital to the airport, stopping at home to get the dog for the car ride. My mother is fine and recovering, in case you’re curious.
The flight got in at 6AM and led to a train trip from Frankfurt to Siegen, where I’m staying, that took the better part of the next four hours. No sleep worth mentioning overnight on the plane; I was thankful to the very nice man at the information counter who printed out my route with the wheres and whens for changes — it even had the tracks; not gross — though the timing ended up being incorrect and there was an extra hour of waiting at Geißen. I was glad to have brought chargers. After taking a cab from the train station and not having cash for the driver, who of course didn’t take cards, I checked in, crashed for about two and a half hours, showered and headed out to the outdoor fest grounds in Netphen, which is the next town over. Did I mention it was raining?
All of which is to say that it has been quite a 24-hour stretch, but I know that once the music starts it will be okay. I’ll leave it there for now in advance of that.
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Full Earth
Not to say it’s a surprise that Full Earth’s songs are so recognizable from their earlier-this-year debut, Cloud Sculptors (review here), but I am willing to say that I don’t always think of an 85-minute synth-led instrumental heavy prog 2LP as a context for earworms. Nonetheless, here we are, with the Oslo-based five-piece offshoot of Kanaan (who play shortly) cementing the immediate you-are-here vibe of Freak Valley 2024, and living up to my “it’ll be okay when…” above — there’s a tattoo artist here in back; it is tempting to have that put somewhere on my person as a reminder for those days where it seems like “never” is when it’s okay — with their material, poised and purposeful live as on the record(s). I got to the grounds in time to grab coffee and almost buy two tie-dye shirts for my daughter — they’re awesome and the right size — but the line for the chipkarte (a bracelet with an RFID you put money on) was massive, so I opted to stay put for a few minutes, breathe and let some of the residual adrenaline go into the twisting movement coming from the stage. Light rain falling, mud in the photo pit, but I brought a poncho and am ready to dig in. Full Earth, to that end, were a perfect start.
Daevar
Köln’s Daevar released their second album, Amber Eyes, in March through The Lasting Dose Records, and for the life of me, I thought I reviewed it but can’t find the link. Maybe I just enjoyed listening to it instead and thought sentences about it without typing them? New realities every minute in whatever you call this universe. Either way, that Daevar record is murky-rolly-melodoom, and the trio’s ethereal thickness of tone worked well with the concurrent uptick in rainfall, pushing the line between drizzling and raining and making me glad I brought a poncho should it continue. You could argue that, despite the differences in sound between Full Earth and Daevar, the common factor is still immersion, and certainly in both there’s room for everybody, and Daevar’s nod was also enough to draw a crowd around the Rockpalast video-feed monitor backstage, centered in on riffs and density but broad in the guitar leads and bigger moments of crash. They’re an easy band to dig among the converted, it seems, though I have to imagine most humans not in this valley on the AWO grounds in Netphen would have any idea where they’re coming from. And maybe that’s part of what resonates too. Subculture speaking to itself about itself. I think that’s how you build community, right? With riffs influenced by other riffs influenced by Black Sabbath? Governments should be giving out grants for this shit. Somebody has their baby here in a carrier (with proper ear protection). The smell of mud and cigarettes and weed. Me and coffee. Plus riffs.
Kanaan
Striking how different Kanaan are in their intention than Full Earth, in which all three members of the band take part. For Kanaan, it’s the heavy jams, and where Full Earth felt plotted front to back, Kanaan are certainly tight as musicians — they’d have to be or neither band would work, let alone be good — but you can hear improvisation at root in their sound as opposed to composition. And they’re still playing songs from records — they dipped back to their first album, 2018’s Windborne, for “A. Hausenbecken” — so there’s a plot being followed, but the structure is different and the atmosphere follows on from that in a way that it might not for many acts whose players are pulling double-duty in a given festival day. I didn’t get many pictures before being unceremoniously kicked out of the photo pit for reasons that, if they were stated at all, were not in a language I speak — and that’s my problem, not the dude from security’s — but I’ve chosen to not stress about that shit. I started taking pictures at shows like 13 years ago because I felt like photos were missing from live reviews and I didn’t want to ask anyone else to do it, but I harbor no delusions of talent in that regard and I feel like all this time later doing the thing, it’s still tertiary in my mind to the experience of watching Kanaan take a bow at the end of their set. If it was something I was better at, I’d probably be more interested in it, and vice versa. I got a couple shots anyhow, and having now seen Kanaan three times and twice in the last year, I’m having a hard time coming up with anything to say about their on-stage chemistry that isn’t hyperbole. They should probably tour the States, in theory, but between visa fees and the crowd getting it, I have to wonder if it would be worth their time to do so in the first place.
C.O.F.F.I.N.
They win the day easily in terms of distance traveled to be here. And it’s a good thing their singer was busy also playing drums, since with all the barking behind the mic it kind of felt like somebody was going to get bit. I had listened to C.O.F.F.I.N. — whose moniker stands for Children of Norway Fighting in Finland; they’re from Sydney, Australia — on the ol’ internettobox, and they were plenty punky in person as well, but perhaps tailored their set a bit to the crowd to lean into groove rather than shove, though I’ll emphasize, no lack of either. Before they went on, The Mad Hatter did a secret-ish quick set during the changeover, giving a kind of local color to the bluesy proceedings. As for C.O.F.F.I.N. themselves, they wereI neither retro nor bullshit in their interpretation of old-school rock volatility, and even the barking had charm, let alone the dry ice bubbles that were launching from out of the stage. I’ll admit to being distracted and exhausted enough to feel like I earned the headache I was fighting against, but even in such a state the brash energy wrought from the stage was palpable, whatever else might’ve been going on at the time as it started to get dark a bit after 9PM. C.O.F.F.I.N. weren’t all the way my thing, much as I have one, but I got to take pictures for a couple songs and that was a relief, and then I hung back and watched the crowd go from drunk to drunk-dancing, which I took to mean that a hell of an evening was under way. And so it was, mud-mosh and everything.
Slomosa
“Cabin Fever” and “Rice” into the much mellower verses of “Psykonaut” at the start of the set was a bold play, but Norway’s Slomosa seem to be used to that by now, and it suits them on stage. A clearly developed and worked-on stage presence and vitality, songs that don’t sacrifice hooks at the altar of their own fuzz, and professionalism beyond the fact that to-date they only have one record out — there’s a lot about Slomosa to like, even beyond the earliest-QOTSA tone of “In My Mind’s Desert” and the stonery bounce of the drums in “Battling Guns,” which is a highlight of their out-at-some-point sophomore LP, which they followed with another new song, but not before saying they planned to release the set as a live album — an advantage of having Rockpalast on hand. Another new one, “Red Thundra,” followed, and an invitation to sing along to “There is Nothing New Under the Sun” followed, which was accepted by some even in back where I was standing. Bottom line, they were locked in. A band with this much going for them, even in a largely-ignored, underground style, all they really need to do is keep going the way they are. They’re not a stylistic revolution, but over the next couple years there are going to be a lot of bands coming out of Europe working under their influence — there already are a few — and on stage they absolutely lived up to what I hoped they would be. More, they seemed like they enjoyed it, and were at home holding their energy for the duration. If they can keep this lineup together, they’re on their way to being something very special. They finished with “Horses,” which opened their 2020 self-titled debut (review here), and it was easy to think they might do so for years to come, then did an encore of “Scavengers” that felt like it had been earned.
Monolord
Masters of nod. Even if you could deny Monolord at this stage in the game, for the life of me I have no idea why you would. A decade removed from their debut LP, Empress Rising (discussed here), the Swedish trio of Thomas V. Jäger, Mika Häkki and Esben Willems are easily among the most essential heavy bands of that same decade, and the way they’ve been able to take generic notions like heavy riffs and rolling grooves with melodic vocals and own them to a point of casting a subset of modern stoner-doom in their image is all well and good, but they also still kill it live. In a move that would only ever aid in that cause, they had the esteemed Per Wiberg — who was here in 2023 with the bluesy Kamchatka as well, and has done time with the likes of Spiritual Beggars, Opeth and Candlemass; his latest solo album, The Serpent’s Here (review here), came out earlier this year — sitting in on guitar before moving to keys for the 2023 standalone single “It’s All the Same,” which was duly flattening. It’s just about never what you hear talked about when it comes to their recordings or live shows — and they’re so heavy that it’s kind of understandable — but I’ll argue there’s emotional resonance at play especially in their later work, and it’d be miraculous if calling it that didn’t undercut the work they’ve put in growing as songwriters and performers let them march and convey slog without actually being a drag to hear. All this and Per Wiberg doubling the riff of “Empress Rising,” too? It was a good night to be alive at Freak Valley Festival, and I ended it up front while the band handed out setlists and tossed drumsticks to the crowd, and zero regrets for that.
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More tomorrow, and more the day after that. Hi from Freak Valley. Pics after the jump.
Posted in Whathaveyou on October 19th, 2023 by JJ Koczan
I wrote part of the second announcement from Freak Valley Festival 2024 just yesterday, as it was a surprise that the batch of bands being added were all ready to go at some late notice. Not to say I mind, just that this is all pretty fresh in my head. Apparently Amyl and the Sniffers are big enough to come from Australia and headline in Germany, which is news to me, but that’s cool and something different is welcome alongside such familiar entities as Monolord and Kadavar and 1000mods.
There’s a lot here I’m looking forward to seeing, even just having caught Kadavar in August. With Douwe from Splinter having been in Death Alley, it’ll be great to see him again, and to witness bands like Slomosa, Godsleep, Daevar and Fuzzy Grass is to look at where European heavy rock is headed. The answer to that question, incidentally, is “everywhere.” With riffs.
The sentences with the bands are mine, and I did a little work on the second paragraph with the memories and all that. And you know the only reason I mention it is because I’m trying to keep track for myself however many years from now.
Dig:
(#127928#) Freak Valley Festival 2024 Lineup Announcement (#127928#)
Freak Valley 2024 is set for May 30 – June 1.
Get ready to rock your world at Freak Valley Festival 2024! We’re thrilled to announce an epic lineup featuring some of the hottest acts in the international underground. Join us for a weekend of nonstop music, unforgettable vibe, and memories waiting to be made.
(#129304#) Bands you can’t miss:
(#127908#) Amyl and The Sniffers: Coming all the way from Melbourne, Australia, these raucous punkers will shake things up for sure. What, you thought it was all going to be meditative heavy prog-psych?
(#128293#) Kadavar: They’re only one of the best bands of their generation. No introduction needed. Welcome back Kadavar!
(#128165#) Godsleep: These Athenian aural adventurers release ‘Lies to Survive’ earlier this year and absolutely blew us away with their scope and songwriting. Up next: see how they do it in-person! Can’t wait.
(#127775#) Deathchant: Shredding at the place where classic rock and heavy metal meet, Deathchant are a well kept secret until you see them and can’t shut up about how good they are.
(#127926#) Splinter: Hot on the heels of their second album ‘Role Models,’ Splinter foster roughed-up vintage glam heavy and from “Velvet Scam” to “Forbidden Kicks,” it’ll be a party second to none when they hit the FVF stage for the first time.
(#128266#) Here’s the star-studded lineup:
Monolord – 1000mods – Dÿse – Slomosa – Alex Henry Foster – Mouth – Speck – Demonauta – Full Earth – Fuzzy Grass – Daevar
All killers, no fillers. That’s how we do it, freaks. Get your tickets now because they’ll be gone before you know it.
Don’t miss the chance to be part of the ultimate music experience. Mark your calendars for Freak Valley Festival 2024 – it’s going to be legendary!
Posted in Whathaveyou on September 28th, 2023 by JJ Koczan
I have every intention of being at Freak Valley Festival 2024 when it takes place next May into June, and given the first 11 acts to be announced for its lineup, I’m already glad for that. Yes, no doubt Monolord will crush and I just saw 1000mods like a week ago so I know they’re killing it, but the chance to see the likes of Daevar or Fuzzy Grass, Speck, Mouth, Full Earth (begat by Kanaan) and Slomosa, the young Norwegian outfit at the potential spearhead of a new generation of Euro heavy rock — the kind of band who’ll be headlining in a few years if they keep putting the work in like they are and the songs hold up. Already there’s stuff I never thought I’d see, stuff I’ve seen and know will be awesome, and stuff I haven’t seen that I want to see. Call that a win for a first announcement.
I wrote a decent portion of the below, but some was added, so I’m not gonna take full credit or anything like that. Nonetheless, as posted on socials:
Freak Valley Festival 2024 Lineup Announcement!
Ladies and gentlemen, freaks of all ages, get ready to rock your world at Freak Valley Festival 2024! We’re thrilled to unveil the first part of an incredible lineup featuring some of the most electrifying bands from around the globe. Freak Valley 2024 is set for May 30 – June 1.
You’ve already seen that Early Freak Tickets are on sale for Sept. 30 at Vortex Surfer in Siegen, and Regular Tickets again Oct. 2. Online sales start Oct. 3 and tickets hit local shops on Oct. 4. But enough about that!!
You’ve been waiting, we’ve been waiting, and the first band we’re ready to unveil for Freak Valley Festival 2024 is MONOLORD.
The Swedish kingpins of plus-sized riffs were last with us in 2019. Will they be back with a new album next summer? It’s cool to hope so, but either way, you can’t go wrong when Monolord come to crush, which they always do.
They’ll be joined by Greek heavy rock kingpins 1000MODS, Norwegian upstarts SLOMOSA — whose second record will be out by June — and ALEX HENRY FOSTER who you might remember was supposed to play in 2023, as well as DŸSE, SPECK, DAEVAR and FUZZY GRASS from France.
Newcomer Kanaan-offshoot FULL EARTH will join us from from Norway and long-running Chilean sludge outfit DEMONAUTA will grace our stage for the first time.
Rounding out this first announcement closer to home, we’ll bring Köln heavy prog stalwarts MOUTH on board, heralding this year’s ‘Getaway’ LP, which is must-hear if you haven’t!
(#128266#) Here’s the star-studded lineup:
Monolord – 1000mods – Dÿse – Slomosa – Alex Henry Foster – Mouth – Speck – Demonauta- Full Earth- Fuzzy Grass – Daevar
All killers, no fillers. That’s how we do it, freaks. Get your tickets now because they’ll be gone before you know it.
Prepare for an unforgettable weekend filled with mind-blowing performances, heavy riffs, and an atmosphere that’ll keep you rocking all night long. Freak Valley Festival 2024 is set to be an absolute musical extravaganza!
Feeling moderately asskicked when I woke up, I headed to the hotel breakfast quickly to grab coffee. They had scrambled eggs and I didn’t have any, which was the wrong choice. My stomach was a little iffy. So maybe pounding seven espressos out of the machine wasn’t a hot idea either. I’d call these rookie mistakes, but I’m no rookie. Just a dumbass who can’t handle basic nourishment when left to his own devices.
Some light nausea and a not-nap later, it was back to the festival grounds for me. Today is supposed to be hotter than yesterday, so I’ll keep to my routine of refilling the water bottle at least once per band. I am a firm believer in the power of hydration, which is good because I think that’s what’s going to get me through the day. You can’t always count on stumbling into a yoga class at just the right time, sadly.
Before I go up to take pics of the start of the 10-act final day here, I would like to reiterate my thanks to Freak Valley for having me back. The vibe here is intimate and friendly and there are still however many thousand people, so that’s saying something. I am honored to be here, to have been here, to have met people and made friends here and seen and heard things I never knew I would. If you told me 15 years ago that I’d be living this life, even on intermittent weekends spread throughout the year, I’d probably have been like, “Wow that sounds exhausting, sure hope I don’t blow out a knee or some shit,” but underneath I’d be flabbergasted. I remain so, loving it.
My phone autocorrected “living” at the end of that last sentence. I’m leaving it as is. Some mistakes are on purpose.
Thank you again. Here we go. Day three of three:
Reverend Beat-Man
Before the show actually started, the good Reverend was to be found one-man parading around the merch/food area with a mini amp and bullhorn, hand-delivering scummer blues as he went. I didn’t even have the battery in my camera yet, so the above pic is from my phone. I don’t know what car battery he was huffing before going onstage, but I’d gladly take a hit off it. Dude was full-on, exclusively, there on his own doing weirdo blower blues, put his clergy collar on during his purposefully laughably long intro. Distorted vocals, some looped cello for good measure, a real performance piece, complete with sleaze, “Jesus Christ Twist,” boogie like he was born to do it, merch sold on the honor system, and a fest-day’s worth of shenanigans packed into a set that had the early crowd shouting for one more song when it was over. A hoot in the grand tradition of hoots.
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Ritual King
Proper English heavy rock. You can hear aspects of original-era desert riffing, some Truckfighters as well in that rolling bass, but Ritual King’s 2020 self-titled debut (review here), issued through Ripple, had more progressive stretches too and that came through a bit in the shuffle jam amidst all the roll and richness of fuzz, the bass holding down the groove while the guitar trips out ever so slightly. It was almost like you could hear them growing as they played, and their first record was already a call to the converted. I’ll not go around making predictions, but they were tight, seemed to be just the right amount of not-sober to represent the UK ahead of Orange Goblin later, and made it clear that the next generation of heavy knows from whence it comes and is ready to make its own statement in the genre. That’s the hope, anyhow. They could break up tomorrow, you never know. If that happened, I’d be glad to have seen them today. Second record later this year. Don’t tell anybody. It’s a secret.
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Food: With about 10 minutes before Gaupa went on, I very quickly inhaled the meat out of a sans-rice goulash, leaving most of the sauce, veggies, etc. Burned tongue for the effort. My self-imposed dietary restrictions at this point are laughable — I brought three (small, plastic) jars of almond butter with me, left the one I wanted to bring at the hotel, hence the improv. What my feelings on this matter tell me is I’m channeling other shit into disordered eating because it’s a way to exert control over some aspect of my life. Take care of your brain, kids.
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Gaupa
Burner. If I hadn’t seen them in December in their native Sweden, I’d likely be blown away both by the band’s performance and the response from the crowd, but while I knew what to expect, Gaupa still set a high standard on the stage. Hair flying all over the place, and vocalist Emma Näslund’s sort of hard-hippie dance moves putting emphasis on the band’s psychedelic side even as the actual tones are doomly thick and their riffs are high-class Euro stoner. They’re on their way, and the only question is how far they’ll push it. And they’re young, which is crucial. Last year’s Myriad (review here) featured heavily and it was immediately apparent that those assembled were familiar. They were an early pull for the crowd — all of a sudden, the grass was packed — and their delivery more than justified that.
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Tabernacle
All the way over from San Francisco, Tabernacle are a conceptual four-piece who make a point of only playing original arrangements of traditional English folk songs. And I guess on paper that kind of says covers, but that’s not quite the end of it. Technically, they’re songs that have been around and performed by many people — it’s fucking folk music; it’s for and of the folk — but the way they interpret the root material is their own, pairing ancient melodies with heavy warmth, languid, fluid nod. I guess the difference between Tabernacle and what I would generally think of as covers is the possibility of progressing in terms of sound. Their approach is open to growing, and between lead vocalist/synthesist Caira Paravel, bechapeaued guitarist/vocalist Walker Phillips, who are solo filk players as well, bassist Camilla Saufley (ex-Golden Void, The Assemble Head in Sunburst Sound, and a Freak Valley veteran) and drummer Adam Weaver (The Asteroid No. 4), they clearly have the range and reach to make that happen if they choose. They don’t have much out, just a few songs streaming, and so I think people didn’t know them that well — writing the announcement that they were playing here was how I learned about them too — but for a band writing around established foundations, they wanted nothing for originality. I’d listen to a record of this, happily.
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Hypnos 69
Hard for me to say enough how much I was looking forward to Hypnos 69. Not something I ever dreamed could happen, even before the band broke up like a decade ago. They’re a band whose music I’ve listened to for 20 years — and that by no means makes me groundfloor, so please don’t think I’m saying it does — and when I was first learning about underground rock, my initial immersion in different styles and bands from all over, they taught me so much about what heavy music could do, about what ‘progressive’ meant in terms of influence and presence, about atmosphere and about how music can seem to chase itself in circles forever and have fun doing it. I was nervous before they went on. What if they didn’t live up to the expectation in my head? What if they were jerks on stage? What if what if what if a piano fell out of the sky on my head two minutes before they went on? They were better than I could have hoped. I guess the phrase “bucket list band” applies, but really it was just something I’d reconciled myself to missing and never being able to see. I’ve lived with those records for so long, to hear and at them brought to life in front of me — along with new material, no less — felt like a landmark. I am so grateful. Thank you Hypnos 69, thank you Freak Valley. And please, if you’re seeing these words and you’ve never heard this band, I implore you to listen. Start with 2010’s Legacy (review here), and work back through 2006’s The Eclectic Measure (discussed here), 2004’s The Intrigue of Perception (discussed here) and 2002’s Timeline Traveller (rules but hasn’t closed a week yet; keeping it in my back pocket; it’s on their Bandcamp with all the rest). At least check it out if you haven’t. Please.
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The Obsessed
Dudes sounded great. More than 40 years on, The Obsessed came across with new life and brought the doom of the Chesapeake to this little alcove in Netphen with fervency and groove alike. Founding guitarist/vocalist Scott “Wino” Weinrich and drummer Brian Costantino have been playing together for about a decade straight at this point, and with Chris Angleberger on bass and Jason Taylor on guitar/backing vocals — last I saw them was 2019 in Boston with Reid Raley still on bass and just Wino on guitar; the more standard configuration as a trio through their history — they sounded more than ready to follow-up 2017’s Sacred (review here) and were locked in all the way with a trademark groove that has helped forge trad doom. There was a short rant between songs about biometric scans and money on bracelets and freedoms being taken away, but that’s who Wino is and is nothing new, even if the discourse around and promulgation of conspiracy theories has changed in the last 10 years. In any case, the songs sounded like I can only imagine riding a motorcycle feels, and that’s the idea when it comes to The Obsessed, so I’m calling it a win outright. New record later this year on Ripple, from which they aired “It’s Not Okay,” which was shouted out to “all these fucking keyboard warriors” typing all their words and something about showing up at their house with a baseball bat on a Sunday and having them run away. Fair enough.
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The Great Machine
Somehow they played fast even when they were playing slow, but either way, Israeli trio The Great Machine ran circles around the stage, and out in front for a bit too, and were a sight to behold as they made sure to get their cardio in while playing. Good fun, great energy, and their new album, Funrider (review here), while aptly named, is just a whiff of what they do live in terms of forward charge. But in addition to running around stage, the sound was also right on, roll and shove and even the odd quiet moment playing off each other with killer stoner roll and density that they made move almost as much as they did while playing. And even more, their set happened to coincide with the first break in the heat of this very, very sunny day, so all the conditions seemed to apply for them to kick ass, which they did with marked thoroughness. They’ve been here before, in 2017 (I looked it up; I know a good place for that kind of thing), and I have a hard time imagining they wouldn’t be invited back again. Rarely in my experience is heavy rock so much fun and still has so much to offer musically. They brought out a guest screamer toward the end of the set and continued to lap the vast majority of everything as they pummeled riff after riff. Hypnos 69 were the band I knew I was waiting for. The Great Machine were the band I didn’t know I was waiting for.
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Hällas
This wasn’t my first time encountering Swedish cosmic strutters Hällas — who rock proto-metallic ’70s space riffs and their capes with equal aplomb; not being sarcastic — but it was the melodies that got me this time. Such a smooth, classy style, between the up-to-three vocalists and the organ and guitars, giving them a sense of out-thereness in alignment with their stage presence. I don’t mind telling you I am beat. Truly. But the sun is on its way down as we head toward 21:30, and I’m happy to let “Star Rider” take me into the home stretch of Freak Valley 2023. Much like hope The Great Machine were more than just somebody’s ecercise video, so too were Hällas more than the sum of their stage costumes. I guess in terms of sound they’re vintage, but it’s retrofuturism if anything, and they’re masters of it at this point and reliable in that regard. And even if I was dragging ass — no yoga today, sadly, though I’ve done some stretching throughout and basic sustenance helped — they most certainly were not and they had people singing along, dancing, spontaneous clapping along, the whole thing. I found a not-quiet but also not-crowded spot to sit and watch, trying to soak in as much as I can of this festival because I know it’s going to be over soon. What a party it’s been. No wonder tickets sell out in like a day every year.
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Orange Goblin
On a planet marked by its paucity of guarantees, you can know in your heart that when Orange Goblin show up, it’s to destroy. Their second album, Time Travelling Blues (discussed here), was released in 1998 on Rise Above Records, which makes its 25th anniversary the occasion for playing it in full for the first time ever here, at Freak Valley, but I ask you in a spirit of friendship, would they really need an excuse? From fucking “Blue Snow” through the fucking title-track — god damn, that groove, and that ending — and fucking “Nuclear Guru,” that’s one of the best fucking sabbath rock records ever made to not actually be by Black Sabbath. The set was a celebration that felt like it applied to the whole weekend, and Orange Goblin absolutely hit that mark. Chris Turner on drums propulsive or swinging or both, Joe Hoare on guitar with blues shred, Harry Armstrong — the only member of the band now who wasn’t in it a quarter-century ago — with a stark reminder that ‘heavy’ lives in the bottom end, and Ben Ward jumping up and down and running point like the frontman he is, like a walking advertisement for his own sobriety and healthy living. Full of life. The night isn’t over yet, but this was a special set in more than just the songs being played. A highlight? Shit. These guys — and in no small part, this record — have inspired a generation and counting of English heavy. It is, and they are, a classic. And being here, with the trees lit up in back and the hey-hey-heys from the crowd almost as loud as the band itself, the band throwing in “Red Tide Rising” as a bonus track at the end. I hope I never forget it. Thank you.
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Slift
Do we need to talk about Ummon? That record (review here) carried entire legions of weirdos through the pandemic, and I felt like I was overdue for seeing Slift live. Not in a the-moment-has-passed way, because it hasn’t, but just in that way I’m perpetually late to any and all parties. They brought the drums down front and set up in a line, had a video protection behind, and you could feel the bass in your chest on that side of the stage even when they were warming up, speaking from personal experience. They lit the galaxy on fire. They blew up the fucking Death Star. Slayer meet Hawkwind. Didn’t know space thrash was a thing? It was tonight for sure, but that’s really just the launch point for the Andromeda-bound FTL groove that Slift emit. People were saying their goodnights, me too, but after a long and busy few days since I took off from Newark an entire dimension ago, I was only too happy to be disintegrated by the pulsations of their cosmic noise. I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe it’s ending. I can’t believe how ineffective my earplugs were in the face of their dizzying assault. I could go on, easily, about them ripping holes in space-time, or I could start using treknobabble, which might be fun, but I’m not sure that would capture the overwhelming physical presence of Slift at Freak Valley. I can’t remember the last time I so badly wanted a band to not be a fluke. They’ve got nearly impossible expectations to meet. But, that tension, you can feel in your blood. This band might be the real deal, and I know I’m not the first to say so. At least some of what they played was new, so that bodes well. I’m keeping my fingers crossed. I’m hopeful. Do you know how good that feels?
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Thank you again for reading. Thank you Freak Valley. Thank you Jens, Alex, Marcus, Felli, Roman, Juan, Pete Holland. I met friggin’ Komet Lulu! I was so nervous and awkward; totally embarrassed myself. Everybody who approached me to introduce themselves and say some words about this site or what I do. People are so impossibly kind. Friends I met last year and saw again. Sister Rainbow! I don’t think I knew how badly I needed this, but I bet The Patient Mrs. knew, and thanks to her most of all. Thank you, Wendy. I love you.
I wrote too much today. I took too many pictures. I guess some part of me was trying to cram in as much as I could while I could. No regrets. For mostly my own future reference, here’s the running order of the entire festival. I saw all of it.
More pics after the jump. You know the deal. Cheers from Freak Valley 2023, and all the love in the universe. I fly home tomorrow.
Got back to the hotel in Siegen last night around two, I think. The question was whether to shower before collapsing into bed. I did, and it was the right call. The smell of cigarette smoke, sweat, and humanity was powerful motivation. And when I did conk out, I slept harder than I have in some time. Maybe about a year?
It’s hot today and soon to start. Bit of breeze in the shade is a big yes. In the interest of honesty I tell you I’m beat and a little nervous for what the day might bring, but ready for it. Took all the allergy medicine, have sunglasses, my silly hat, earplugs. Water. So much water. Gonna go grab some more now, in fact. All the water.
Sorry for the typos today as well, but thanks for reading if you are/do. Here’s the day:
Orsak:Oslo
The Norwegian/Swedish instrumental four-piece remind me of last year’s fest, which had a whole bunch of meditative psych/post-heavy with which they would fit well. Their new album, In Irons (discussed here), came out in April on Vinter Records, and they harnessed that fluidity live, or maybe that’s the other way around, I’d have to see them a few more times to properly judge. But the bit of krautrock they worked in was met with some dancing from the crowd, and while I think many of those in the audience today are definitely feeling the edge of the late finish last night — I know I am — Orsak:Oslo were a way of easing into a day that’s even longer and has more to see. For sure a different vibe than Tuskar, who were first yesterday, but their flow and comparatively mellow but still lucid psych seemed to hypnotize just right. I was glad to see them again after seeing them briefly in Norway in 2019 (review here), and their set was a stirring reminder to get my ass in gear on reviewing that record. Message received. Obviously they didn’t have the biggest crowd of the day, playing at 1:30 some 10 hours before the headliner, but there were people out front, more by the end, and they were dancing.
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Earth Ship
I was very curious to see Earth Ship, because as regards projects from the Berlin-based Jan Oberg and Sabine Oberg — the others are Grin and the pandemic-born Slowshine — Earth Ship are kind of the middle ground. They rock more than Grin, whose sludge is pointedly aggro, and they’re more grounded than the psych-tinged Slowshine, and not only do I appreciate how their bands are organized — I like a bit of this goes here, this goes here, this goes here — but Earth Ship’s riffs are a hook of their own. And they’re more even more rock live than on record, though Jan’s vocals are still largely barks, but watching them for the first time, it’s easy to see they’re having fun and love what they do. They weren’t thrashing around or anything, but there was passion behind their delivery and stage energy, and it was infectious. Inviting, in a way. “You dig this. We do too. Let’s get loud.” Unfortunately this utopian vision doesn’t apply to everyone everywhere all the time, because it’s a big planet, but I’m glad to have had a sampling of what they do and hope it’s not the last time our paths cross, in whatever incarnation.
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Kamchatka
Heavy blues promised, heavy blues delivered. Nothing there to argue with even if you wanted to. In the heat of the afternoon, Sweden’s Kamchatka brought a little bit of a breeze that, in combination with the sprinklers strewn about the festival grounds being frequented by adults and children alike, was some measure of relief. No doubt the wind was conjured by the air being pushed through the amps and the swing of drummer Tobias Strandvik, who was comfortable in the pocket as the trio — completed by guitarist Thomas “Juneor” Andersson and bassist Per Wiberg (yes, the same one who’s played with Opeth, Candlemass, Spiritual Beggars, on and on, mostly on keys; he’s also got a few solo releases; must like music or something) were classically dynamic, varied of tempo and mood, and they had a couple sleek jams worked in with the bouts of uptempo shove, mellow groove, all that stuff, definitely heavy ’70s informed but modern in their presentation. I wandered a bit, trying not to be just in one place all day — the quest for shade is part of that, to be sure — but my own restlessness was duly counteracted by the solid, unpretentious grooves coming from the stage, and as one will on such an occasion, I found myself feeling like I need to listen to this band more. A lesson learned, maybe.
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Steak
So somewhere in the long-long ago, I saw a band in London called Crystal Head who blew me away and left me wondering what the hell the deal was that they weren’t huge. Seeing that band’s former guitarist/vocalist, Tom Cameron, joining his ex-and-again bandmate Dean Deal (drums), as part of an upgraded five-piece Steak lineup, again on guitar and adding his vocals to those of frontman Chris “Kippa” Haley — they even covered that band’s likewise memorable “Perfect Weirdo” before playing a new song called “2×2” — was a thrill. Haley sharing vocal duties is a shift in the dynamic, but in line with 2022’s righteous Acute Mania (review here) — if you heard the record you might say their realizing their potential to such a degree was “a long time coming” — they’re a deeper band for being able to bring their arrangements to life with another player on board. I haven’t been to a show in London in half a decade, but I hope Steak are playing the next one I hit. I was prepared for a more mature act by seeing them in 2019 at Desertfest New York (review here), but between the lineup, the record and the performance, they’ve truly put it all together. Change is the nature of the universe. Sometimes it even works out.
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Pontiak
Well, that’s my new working definition of underrated. Based in Virginia, the brotherly trio Pontiak were the perfect blend for the moment. They were heavy enough to follow Steak so that there wasn’t a loss of aural push on the day, but with each of member of the Carney family with a mic, yeah. Just, yeah. I’ve written about them intermittently over the years, never really with any depth, and I’m sorry that it’s only now I understand the error in that neglect. The noisier, punkier, more aggro impulse is still there in the guitar, but the atmosphere is so reconciled to it, so right in being what it is, that the melodies seemed that much richer for the underlying tension. Sitting at stage right, I turned my head and saw a small pocket of maybe four dudes being led in a yoga class and hell fucking yes I joined (asked first). Happy to report that yoga and Pontiak went together extremely well, and the stretch and the focus on calm movement, purposeful movement, that slowdown was incredible. Doing cat-cows while the band locked in a half-time nod that reminded me of the time they toured with Sleep. Planks and down-dogs and pigeon and all that. I said yesterday that I could feel myself being too tight. I’m not sure my back will thank me this evening for the cobras, but screw it, sometimes the riffs are right and the thing is happening and you need to go with it. I have absolutely no regrets. I hope it happens again tomorrow. And if Pontiak wanted to do a hang out and do a second show, that’d be rad too.
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Seedy Jeezus
Would be an odd way to start a conversation, but if you asked me how many times in my life I was going to see Melbourne, Australia’s Seedy Jeezus, my honest answer would’ve been zero to one. Thus I consider watching them play a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and with their The Hollow Earth live 2LP (discussed here) fresh in mind — they played the title-track, and no, that wasn’t all — I tried my best to soak in every minute of their heavy psych-blues jams and the scorching guitar work of Lex Waterreus, who put his soul into every note in a way that was palpable, but that didn’t lose the audience along the way. I’d say he was all heart if he wasn’t also so clearly technique. They were Hendrixian even before they threw in the cover of “Voodoo Child (Slight Return)” that also appears on that live record, but certainly that would seal the deal in that regard. The last time they were here, in 2015, they put out a live album after. If they did ‘Live at Freak Valley Again’ they’d be well within their rights. Actually, maybe they should just record all their shows. Worked for the Dead. Easy, organic flow, jammy but headed somewhere, joy to follow. They’re not a band I ever thought I would experience live. And I met Lex and drummer Mark Sibson — the band is very much completed by Paul Crick on bass — and they seem like nice sorts. Lex teared up thanking the crowd — he also shouted out the much-missed Stoned Jesus, who would be here but for war — and then the whole band proceeded to tear into another ace jam of the kind you get to witness, well, let’s just say not very often. Having now done so once, that’s a record I’d be happy to break.
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King Buffalo
What a charmed fucking existence I lead. King Buffalo are the first band this weekend whose set I was so wrapped up in that I forgot to write. Sometimes you just leave time. It hasn’t been that long since I last encountered the Rochester, New York, three-piece, less than a year — though as history has shown, that’s long enough for one or two landmark LPs from them — but they were a pleasure as always. Dan Reynolds, man. Taking that bassline in “Silverfish” for walks both literal and figurative. They’ve been on tour for somewhere around three weeks now, have somewhere around a week to go, and are duly sharp onstage. I could go on and on about their pandemic trilogy of LPs, regale you with hyperbole and superlatives about the depth of their sound, the emotional undercurrent to their melodies, the sheer growth they’ve undergone in the last nine years, but I’ve said it all before. And being me, I’ll probably say it all again. I could have put in the review links, but fuck it. Watching them, it wasn’t time for that. It was time to be in that moment. That particular almost gone right very now. Dudes in the crowd throwing love hearts at each other. It was a beautiful moment to be alive. I can take out my phone and finish the god damned sentence later. I don’t know about you, but I would have had a much harder time the last three years of my life without this band. And I don’t think they’ve yet done their best work. I hope they never do. Would be a shame to think of them not chasing that thing. Not gonna take away from anyone else on this bill or the decades of work Earthless and the Melvins have put in, but this was my headliner set for the night. And it wasn’t even dark.
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Earthless
I was in front of the stage at the time, but I have to think that wherever you were on the festival grounds, you knew Earthless as about to go on when Isaiah Mitchell started warming up on guitar. Little shred here, little shred there. Mario Rubalcaba back there thump thump, Mike Eginton rumble rumble. And that’s Earthless. You take shred shred, thump thump, rumble rumble, make sure everyone is unrealistically talented, and you let it become epic as it inevitably will. Serve hot, like scorching. The most-of-the-time instrumental trio came to Freak Valley to play their latest album, Night Parade of One Hundred Demons (review here), in its entirety. That album came out in January and in following 2018’s Black Heaven (review here), found the band reclaiming their longform sans-vocal approach after the last record’s partial foray into more traditional rock songwriting. Of course they ripped it up, they’re frickin’ Earthless. Gradual start, bit of a raga wakeup at the beginning of the record, then all of a sudden except not really sudden it’s been happening the whole time you just didn’t realize it because see “unrealistically talented” above, and they were fully immersed. And so was the crowd. It was after 10PM but still just barely nighttime — Earthless at sundown; I dare you to ask for more — and I guess I didn’t realize it at the time, but it turns out that whole record was meant to be played live. And that’s something they can actually do because the parts are plotted. They’re songwriting, just on their own level, which incidentally is how they do everything. The world is in no small part because of Earthless not at all short on instrumental heavy psych rock — more bands seem to form every time they play, and they play a fair amount; someone tell Bandcamp they’re gonna need more servers — but still, one Earthless. They were entrancing.
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Melvins
I would never dare call myself a Melvins fan, especially in the presence of so many who obviously are, but it’s common knowledge they destroy live and their current incarnation absolutely slayed. I don’t know if I’m going to go dig into the probably 15 or so records they’ve done in the last decade-plus to catch up, but I definitely don’t regret watching them cover “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” and they played a tune or two I recognized from the days when they and Big Business were a thing — fortunately Dale Crover didn’t seem to have much trouble doing the work of two drummers — and that song from Stoner Witch or whichever of those Atlantic-era records it was. Imagine a major label signing a band like this now. Ha. But these Melvins have been at it — hard — for the last 40 years and they’re still punk rock no matter how thick their riffs are. Goes without saying this was my first time seeing them with Steven Shane McDonald and he was a perfect fit. That’s the guy to keep up with Crover and King Buzzo, as much as anyone could hope to do so. He was a blast, they were a blast, and they came out to “Take on Me” by A-ha, which in the world of weird coincidences, I’ve run into three times in the last month. Great song, doesn’t matter. The important thing is the Melvins let Freak Valley know why they are who they are and sat on top of this bill because it would’ve been silly for another band to try to follow them. King Buzzo echoing into the finally-night sky. Total blowout.
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Okay that’s enough. Day three tomorrow. Thanks for reading. More pics after the jump. Good night.
