That Petrel Emotion

I bought my first charity shop records of the year this afternoon, and I'll be at my first gig of the year in a few hours.  2015 has, therefore, begun.

I don't think this is a very good review, but my editor seemed pleased enough, so what do I know?

PETRELS, PADDOX, AFTER THE THOUGHT, Pindrop, MAO, 11/12/14

They called it Dronefest.  Hard to argue, as there isn’t a moment tonight when guitars or keys aren’t filling the air with drones.  Before any act has officially started, Lee Riley and members of Flights Of Helios and Masiro are sonically decorating both the venue space and the upstairs bar with thick tones, the sort that soon start to seep into every thought - one of Nightshift’s more wild-eyed writers greets us with “I’ve been here 45 minutes.  It’s brilliant!”   Apparently, lonely souls even continued playing to an empty foyer whilst the acts performed in the basement, although we can’t believe anyone listened (Schroedinger’s remix, anyone?). 

On the stage, After The Thought shifta slow, elegant notes round in the manner of Eno’s Shutov Assembly with early 90s twinkles a la vintage Global Communication, not to mention a penchant for heartbeat rate decay that’s positively Pete Namlook.  Although the set gets pretty claustrophobic and the high tones nag, it also sounds like warm, friendly pop music underneath.  Is Bubblegum Tinnitus a genre?  Or have the drones started to twist our thoughts, like a dystopian 70s alien infiltration.

Our first impression of Paddox is that it’s brave to puncture such prettiness with loosely sprayed static coughs and rusty corvid caws.  Our second thought is that it isn’t brave, but idiotic, and our third that it is clearly unintentional.  The set is awash with technical snafus, bad connections and unwanted hisses, and whilst there are delightful moments, not least a mournful Gavin Bryars violin motif that floats above the pulsing noise (deliberate and otherwise), we’re left feeling we’ve not seen a performance that it would be fair to judge.

Petrels set is inventive and varied, in a fashion that the event’s name might not have implied.  The excellent tonal tapestry brings to mind images of blasted souls trapped in an old Amstrad floppy drive, skirling seabirds enveloped in thick syrup (perhaps in tribute to the stage name) and even some Artificial Intelligence offcuts.  The set ends with a looping emotional chorus, like the refrain from a lost Spring Offensive song slowly disappearing into a searing sunset.  As we leave James Maund is still making guitar noise in the foyer.  Perhaps he’s still there.