concert – Music Chronicles

The Brian Jonestown Massacre

Manchester UK 14.02.2025

View of the front Albert Hall with the big organ

The Brian Jonestown Massacre, better at home.

Oh well, I am excited for this one, and here I go, off on another big rock night in the city—this time to see The Brian Jonestown Massacre at the Albert Hall. The venue is structurally marvelous, a grand reminder of Victorian architecture. Even though the building isn’t the best for acoustics, it offers a solid 2,500-person capacity and great views from every spot—especially of the stunning church organ crowning the stage.

The night begins with a psychedelic guitar intro, leading into a melodic tune by Les Big Byrd, the Swedish supporting band. Their set is filled with dramatic synthesizers, robust drumming, and the sexy energy of frontman Joakim Ahlund, who starts singing after the second track with a raspy, deep voice. I feel like this will put us in the right mood to enjoy BJM. Their 30-minute set is packed with hyper-mad guitars, harmonies, and metallic synths that, at times, spiral into frenzied revolutions. The band is tight, and their performance takes us on a journey, balancing soft and hard moments of excitement that transcend the stage. Ahlund, looking sculptural, holds his guitar in the air multiple times, amplifying this sweet cookie of psychedelia and garage rock.

As we reach the final 10-minute song, it begins at a slow pace, pulling us into a beautiful jungle of rhythm guitars, melting our souls into a river of cosmic noise. We’ve been clapping and cheering after every track, and as the band wraps up, they thank and greet the crowd. This trip to a magic wonderland ends with the softest keyboard strumming, rocking us like a lullaby.

Time flies as the stage is rearranged, while BJM’s recorded music plays over the speakers. And just as the clock strikes 9, I count seven cowboys taking the stage, all in jeans and dark sunglasses, stepping into a dimly lit red haze that will remain unchanged for most of the show. The crowd is so excited that we give them a standing ovation before they even play a note. They stand sweetly, with big smiles, waving into the void, where the dark crowd cheers and claps. The first sounds we hear come from the keyboard, which gently merges with the audience’s excitement before slowly fading our voices out.

The first song feels like a warm-up, with steady and tight guitars. The energy begins to build—we are burning for them, ready to fly along with their flames—but suddenly, at the end of the first song (and, unfortunately, at the end of most of them), the entire band falls silent. They stare into the distance, looking lost, while the sound techs do their job. They barely interact with each other or the audience. This cold, detached atmosphere lingers for the entire two-hour set, making it difficult to get into the flow of a performance that feels fractured.

Hoping it was just an issue with the sound check, I try to remain patient. But by the third song, they stop mid-performance. “Sorry about that.” At this moment, Anton Newcombe finally addresses us—because he has no other choice. He mentions Valentine’s Day, thanks us for being there, and says he loves us. But throughout the night, he only speaks a couple more times—to remind us that they’re musicians and they’re here to play, or to complain about the inefficiency of social media for musicians, which keeps pushing the same mainstream artists over and over again.

I was surprised that technical difficulties and sluggish execution dominated a night where the music was played with precision yet extreme calmness by every member of the band. From the very beginning, I could feel the crowd’s energy—we were eager to dance, connect, feel their music, and vibrate with them. However, the long pauses between songs and the band’s passivity slowly spread yawns through the audience. The atmosphere felt tedious. I was shocked that this dynamic remained unchanged for the entire two exhausting hours.

Halfway through the concert, there was another very long pause. The lights came on, and they asked for medical assistance for someone in the crowd. Over an hour in, and it seemed like the energy wanted to take off—but that dreadful feeling just wouldn’t go away. The only spark I could hold onto was the guitarist, who danced endlessly like a snake, empowering his 12-string guitar.

This is a band I had been wanting to see for a long time, and it made me sad to realize that I just wanted to leave. The only reason I didn’t was because I wanted to be able to tell you how it ended—or if anything changed. I wasn’t expecting one of those infamous on-stage riots they’re known for, but I’ve seen dead flies with more charm and engagement.

That being said, there were a couple of good moments—when Ahlund returned to perform a song with the band, the energy shifted drastically, and the Hall came alive, raging for it. And then, suddenly, without warning, after two hours on stage, they finished playing—hardly saying goodbye, as if it weren’t their concern that we were all still standing there, patiently waiting to be tossed a drop of juice.

It really upset me that I had been looking forward to experiencing their music live, and they offered nothing but an “okay” delivery of their songs. No feeling, no sentiment, no expression. Hidden in the darkness of the red neon lights for the entire set, the band members seemed lost between songs. After more than 25 years, a band with so much potential has endless possibilities in terms of lighting, stage design, and visuals—and none of those were fulfilled in this performance.

Next time, I’d rather stay home with a beer in one hand and a Rollie in the other.

Artwork by Maitane Hermosa

ink, A4

words, photography and drawings by Maitane Hermosa

Article for Fluxmagazine.com

https://www.fluxmagazine.com/the-brian-jonestown-massacre-better-at-home/

Twin Suns at Retro.

Manchester 2024

I must admit that I arrived late. I must have missed the debut concert of a young band with an average age of 18 that was making their first appearance on stage. Playing at Retro for the first time is a luxury. This young band, the Dassins, with some magnificent videos on YouTube, sound great, and I hope to see them soon.

I arrived when the Sarcoline band was preparing their guitars on stage, and everything was ready. The atmosphere was electric, and the venue was half full. The temperature kept rising as the band started playing. I didn’t take many notes because I couldn’t stop dancing and vibing to a very controlled, fresh sound with echoes of old-school rock and surf. Vibrant music with character, where each member exuded magnificent synchronicity as a whole. Towards the end of the concert, their leader and singer was headbanging, shaking his sweat-soaked hair, a fantastic silhouette in this room with red, blue, and green neon lights, giving their concert the most authentic and punky touch.

During the intermission, I thought about how lucky I was to see them just a few feet away, witnessing the majesty of each member facing the audience, giving their best through their music and receiving love in return.

Something the next band couldn’t quite pull off. Jack’s Saving Grace was like a melting ice cream in early summer. A band that’s okay to listen to, but I realized something was off: an opening act surpassing the main performers on stage. JSG had a very indie musical vibe, pure Manchester, soft rock with a couple of songs that make you dance. They dedicated “Sexy” to the women in the audience. They had a couple of comments that seemed more focused on finding a date through music rather than the music itself. Calling the audience sexy just seemed like a playful joke, but it felt outdated, a cry for attention. The best don’t need to beg for applause; they just go out and perform. The last two songs were decent but didn’t quite take me to the edge (of excitement). It annoys me when a band tries to “make the audience clap more” because they’re not satisfied with the level of applause. A sudden need for attention, something I suspected from the beginning. True leaders don’t need that ego boost; they simply do their best.

As for the last band, the supposed star of the gig, Twin Suns, was one of the most disappointing performances I’ve ever seen at a concert from the very beginning.

The situation we faced as the audience yesterday not only made me not dance but also made me scream with anxiety in the bathroom and continuously vomit things into my notebook.

They took the stage, looking somewhat Californian. Their leader, before starting to play, began shouting at the crowd almost threateningly to make noise, referencing how the first band had their first public performance, which was very aggressive. Seeing those bored kids sitting in a corner of the bar from the moment I arrived until that moment when they stood in the front row watching this band was disturbing.

I’ve decided to transcribe my extreme frustration word for word because this leader deserves it:

“Twin Suns hasn’t even started playing, and this man (the leader) is screaming at the audience as if we were unruly farm animals. That Sheffield idiot, eGdS, to call him something, is winning the title of the biggest idiot I’ve ever seen. Aggressive, a complete imbecile, forcing people to make noise (shouting ‘MAKE NOISE!’), getting closer, making MORE NOISE. Five seconds since they got on stage, no music, and this guy is already getting on my nerves. I think he’s pregnant with his own misery. He needs to boss and mistreat others. I don’t want to imagine what he’s like at home. On stage, he’s a damn fascist, and I’m sure he has a small penis.

There’s nothing worse than having a band leader who’s a terrible person, and the worst part is that their songs are decent, I’d even say good and catchy. I wonder if he’s already coked up at this point. Music isn’t everything. Being humble touches the hearts of others. Aggressiveness for a third (actually the fourth, but I didn’t see it) musical act that made me leave with a strong urge to pee (and scream in the bathroom due to his constant MAKE SOME NOISE shouts with a demon’s spirit. Rancid meat of a personality that needs softening. Not even velvet could make their show good. Passable songs with a good leader are a universe of pleasure compared to this hell of songs that keep improving themselves one after another. They are terribly good and rock, but with someone disrespectful and insulting who keeps getting more nervous and violent because we don’t meet his expectations (sir, I didn’t come here to shout at you, but to be amazed by your show). The audience, including me, didn’t shout or pander to him. All he does is keep barking ‘MAKE SOME NOISE’ like a cocaine-addicted dog. What a delight it must be to masturbate with someone else’s hand at the expense of so many uncomfortable souls watching.

Certainly, a bitter ending to a night that started off brilliantly, with the bands declining as the night went on in a venue with incredible sound and atmosphere.”

Cumgirl8 • December 2024 • YES • Manchester

Manchester UK, December 2024

My best hit before Christmas: I was invited to watch Cumgirl8. Not sure what this is all about, but with that name on the business card, I can only expect something sexy and rebellious. Arriving at the venue was like witnessing the spirit of a Vincenzo poem, told on dark nights of fire and techno.

On stage, bathed in a dark red light stands a Rapunzel (AnaSofia) with a blonde strait voluminous hair that reaches the floor, along with a cream-colored dress full of embroidery, reminiscent of other decades (I imagine her stepping out of the forest in the movie The Others by Amenábar) and black studded leather boots with sharp heels. Her only instruments: her voice, her charm, and a Stephen almost hidden in the left shadow of electronic effects.

Blonde kitten, irreverent and cheeky, with schematic hip movements and voice effects—almost an apparition. She is free, he is open. Irreverent, and unapologetic, AnaSofia moved with a serpentine grace, sharing inner monologues and queered poetry through her experimental sound. Her performance blurred the line between concert and theatrical performance, filled with moments so intimate they felt as if they were happening in her living room. She shares her inner monologue with you, an experiment of life like new is every moment. Adorned with these demonic red lights and a guttural yogurt of vocal effects while she sings close to us in the crowd. The people are with her, I am with her, and she is with everyone—drinking and sharing energy. We are a foamy wave. Each song is spaced with open interactions with the audience, leading to cheeky, sweet, and theatrical exchanges. She turns small details into big events, making us laugh and connecting deeply with her. She is the queen of the space, which is full of souls that don’t want her set to end. She moves like a siren, a land-bound mermaid calling all the bitches to come howl and vibrate together. Her reddish silhouette rises with her arm high above us, and she steps into the pit to mix with the crowd. The crowd was with her, completely enraptured.

Her music is heavily DIY, full of rage, life’s joy, and art in the moment. Between songs, blending themes, she speaks to us and almost recites poetry about the search for identity. Queer freedom fills the space with art, fashion, and electronic subversion, making us part of a fight against the system’s normativity. She could easily be an emblem herself. The audience gives her a standing ovation and is filled with disappointment when “Tutti Frutti” turns out to be her final song. “We want more!” we scream, but the queen apologizes.

At this point, I wouldn’t say the audience strictly reflects the feminist aesthetic I was expecting. Instead, a catalog of all ages, mostly rock-looking men in their mid-30s/40s, praised AnaSofia’s performance as she twisted into a complicated bow towards her audience, saying goodbye and blowing us a kiss.

During the break, bands like Amyl and the Sniffers, Shallowhalo, and Kuntess played over the speakers as the room continued to fill up. My companion, a Mexican man in his 50s and a lover of Latin music, made me doubt my decision to invite him. But surprisingly, he was taken aback by the devoted crowd, which didn’t even bother pulling out their phones to record—they just sang all the songs. His second surprise came when he realized she was only the support act.

The New York-based band Cumgirl8, made up of four women, walked through the crowd unnoticed and sneaked onto the stage, wrapped in winter coats. They slowly transformed under the shadows and took the microphones with almost no clothes, powerful, confident, sexy, and so charmingly original that their performance was impossible to forget.

Cumgirl8’s wardrobe was an art piece in itself: provocative bikinis, straps around their necks and legs, cropped shirts, fishnet stockings over vibrant tights, and hairstyles evoking a mix of childhood and Japanese streetwear. Each member of Cumgirl8 seemed to tell her own story through her style. The guitarist Avishag Cohen, went for a more biker-inspired look: black pants, a leather jacket, a tank top, and short hair, projecting a sexy and intimidating vibe. The vocalists—one blonde, the other brunette—played with twin but opposite outfits, like a yin and yang of punk, capturing everyone’s attention. Meanwhile, the drummer, Chase, in a bikini and sneakers, looked as if she had just skated over from the beaches of LA.

The show began with blue lights, and they announced it was their last concert of the year, reflecting on what a great tour it had been. They were amazed to see so many people ready to give it their all on a Tuesday night.

From the first chords, Cumgirl8 made it clear that subtlety had no place here. A wild burst of hard rock resonated with brutal force for starters, pulling the audience into a whirlwind of distorted guitars and frenzied beats.

The main singers (and guitar/bass players), Veronica Vilim and Lisa Fox felt like punk Japanese princesses. Fun, carefree, and feminine, they passed the time between songs chatting like Paris Hilton, slithering gracefully across the stage. At times, I wasn’t sure if I was watching a concert or a play. Their ADHD-like energy turned the stage into a mix of endless, endearing moments. Suddenly, we weren’t in a venue anymore—we were in their living room, sharing an intimate evening with them.

The blonde guitarist raised her Fender in the air, and silence fell over an expectant audience patiently waiting yet animatedly commenting and shouting. The basement at YES isn’t very big. It seemed full before, but now, from the front row to the very back the place is packed. They are an army of misfits, free spirits, outsiders- and we are right there with them. Our blinking, jumping heads bathed in their choreographed voices, throwing their bodies to the floor reminiscent of vampire porn films from 40 years ago.

White and yellow lights on us as they ask, “What did you have for breakfast?” And someone shouts back, “WAFFLES!” And now the song includes Waffles in it. The guitarist jumps into the crowd and everyone around takes out their cameras with flash. Im so grateful i can see what is happening through the multiple screens. Mosh pits have been happening all the way through the gig pushed by their raw, direct and unfiltered vocals about capitalism and patriarchy intertwined with guitar effects that switched between sharp whispers and melancholy loops while we don’t stop hear gems like: “Do you wanna think of love? Come and taste me” or “My pussy just exploded!”

Toward the end, the drummer activated a synth track, leapt into the front row, and began howling gutturally, singing wildly, erotic, and festive. She climbed onto the monitors, tried to hang from the ceiling, and energetically shook her body, her perfect figure mesmerizing the crowd.

The night turned into a forest of exorcisms, impossible postures, and dancing in every direction while each member of the band demanded attention. Their contagious energy made you want to start your own band. Black lips, extreme eyeliner—was I in the middle of a cyberpunk jungle?

A guitar chord that evolves and wraps everything together in a mystical mystery. By this point, my friend’s phone is filled with photos and videos, and he’s too embarrassed to show them to me. The audience is in awe of them, even bidding to buy the shirts they wore that night. An auction organized by the girls happening in the last 3 songs that ended with an auctioned bottle of tequila passing lips among the women in the front row. What else could possibly happen? Man, they came in, turned the stage and the crowd upside down, and left like queens of chaos, anti-normative feminist propaganda with hairy armpits…And to think they slipped in through the crowd without anyone noticing them…

Review SkinShape Band on the wall

October 2024

Warm autumn evening in Manchester, stepping into the Band on the Wall. The gig hasn’t started yet. Lo-fi soft rock and shoegaze fill the speakers, red lights bathing the space, slowly getting crowded with well-behaved and calm people. After a quick visit to the washrooms (with hangers on the doors), I felt filled with a yellow glow. I wandered through the place—two different rooms: one with a long main bar and stage serving pizza, draft beers, cocktails, and bags of crisps; the other, big and dark, only open for events, now fully packed with Skinshaper fans. I need a drink. Two different vibes, atmospheres, and decorations, which led me to choose the bar by the gig. Didn’t want to “lose the vibe happening” willing to wait a bunch of minutes for our drinks.

The music stops, and from the silence emerge a few timid shouts. Everything turns blue and reddish-pink. The session begins with a calm flute melody and captivating drums. I sense a little journey ahead. The instruments blend together gently and in order, allowing each sound to be savored.

A soft melody escapes from the mouth of Rollo Doherty, the leader of the band of the same name, and it enhances the magic in the air. There’s good energy among the group. The guy with the hat setting the rhythm with his drumsticks becomes the magician with the biggest smile. Suddenly, the first song has passed, and I’m on a time-travel machine, experiencing an emotional musical moment: wild drumstick shakes, moments lost to the magic of the beats, now scrunching our neurons, some beautiful high notes on the synths, noise that sounds like heaven, transforming into jazz and disjointed keyboard sounds. This music makes me want to dive into a purple ocean. Why don’t we just spend our time unravelling their notes like seaweed between our fingers, guessing at the shapes of clouds? No talking in between, just music, and a sincere, modest thank you. They introduce themselves, but there are still some songs to go. They’re all seasoned and experienced musicians and producers. A wise move by the Lewis Recordings label to take this young band on tour with Skinshape, in an effort to open up their music to a similar audience. Without a doubt, we’ll remember this as a technically excellent performance, but also as a warm and deeply human experience that took us on a sweet journey tonight, preparing the stage for the headliners.

The room is heated up. “Bumblebee” is playing. People are chatting, laughing, and hugging excitedly. The vibe is higher now. We’ve gone from a calm sea to a joyful spring breeze.

Skinshape jumps on stage with the same energy that envelops the crowd, starting strong with their psychedelic guitar and the song “Take My Time.”

The concert flows between tracks spanning their discography, from unreleased songs to old tunes from 2015. Musically, they’re nailing it, recreating atmospheric landscapes, with Dorey steering the ship. In front of us is a visibly relaxed figure whose hair doesn’t even flinch, maintaining a severe, almost pathological calm throughout the set. It feels as though each movement and sound has been repeated over and over on the tour, and I can’t help but wonder if Doherty has let his instincts for feeling the music fall asleep, even though the execution is perfect.

The show moves through different moments, alternating between the more psychedelic and alternative rock songs. As if never having felt the crashing wave of rock, Dorey takes us into a realm governed by the tranquillity and excitement of someone eager to discover sacred lands. The ground trembles, and like a mantra, the bass vibrates through the floor; the room goes dark. I feel myself descending into the abyss that opens at the second clear silence of the night. The light over Will’s head sparkles in all directions, and his white shirt, which holds all the primary colours in a puzzle, becomes a metaphor for their own composition. The only bright thing on the stage is him.Everything else is red and purple. The girls dance, swaying their hips and hair slowly. Psychedelia is caught in the aura of the lunar warriors who have just arrived from the beach.

I’m so close to the stage, and the room full feels so small, that I can hear Dorey’s pedal click-clacking, shifting gears. His entire demeanour is subtle, yet the communication among all the band members is absolute. The songs flow, and introductions are made. The guitarist is sweating heavily, fully living the journey, enjoying his solo with drops of sweat falling from his forehead.

In a breath, everything turns to funk and soul, with yellow and black projections and the bassist’s silhouette illuminating the wall. “Barely Call My Name” plays, people sigh, and most pull out their phones to record. The room is packed to the back, and though the heavy atmosphere makes it hard to breathe, it’s as if my restless fears also aren’t breathing, caught up in a velvet fruit whirlwind—too sad to grow but eager to overcome all we never had. All we could never lose.

The concert ends, and the red lights stay on. Goodbyes. What? A crowd that’s dissatisfied, excited, and craving more. Nightly musical exhilaration. What kind of neurons does this music touch?

Every song in the setlist is brilliant; it’s hard to say they’re not epic. They could’ve played their farts, and it would have been done with the same elegance. Whatever song they chose to rotate through their repertoire, it was delivered perfectly, as every track is an unstoppable caress of astonishment against nature while their energy mixes with the room.

The voices of those girls up front who shout, knowing it was the last song. The long-haired blonde, Dorey, lowers his gaze and simply says, “Good night, thank you very much.” And they all bow out formally, waving from the corner of their eyes.

o go. They’re all seasoned and experienced musicians and producers. A wise move by the Lewis Recordings label to take this young band on tour with Skinshape, in an effort to open up their music to a similar audience. Without a doubt, we’ll remember this as a technically excellent performance, but also as a warm and deeply human experience that took us on a sweet journey tonight, preparing the stage for the headliners.

The room is heated up. “Bumblebee” is playing. People are chatting, laughing, and hugging excitedly. The vibe is higher now. We’ve gone from a calm sea to a joyful spring breeze.

Skinshape jumps on stage with the same energy that envelops the crowd, starting strong with their psychedelic guitar and the song “Take My Time.”

The concert ends, and the red lights stay on. Goodbyes. What? A crowd that’s dissatisfied, excited, and craving more. Nightly musical exhilaration. What kind of neurons does this music touch?