Uncle John & Whitelock are dead. The Last Rites have been read and all that remains is a bludgeoned corpse seeking absolution in the ceremonious funeral procession preceding December’s burial at King Tuts. But before Auld Reekie inhales the band’s Dirty South stench one final time, tonight’s sonic pallbearers pay tribute to the memory of their departed friends.
Doune/Glasgow ensemble Household are first to the stage, directing a throb of self-combusting noise at Henry’s weeping mourners. Fusing brutal scuzz-fuzz riffs with incomprehensible snarling vocals, their vociferous elctro-punk is the rabid spawn of At The Drive In and Park Attack. Writhing and frothing to every discordant drum kick, this frenetic quartet suction the air from Henry’s Jazz Cellar and spew it out as victorious bile.
After the savage battering of Household, Copy Haho’s cathartic melodies feel like a languid post-mortem. Intrinsically indie, the baby-faced Aberdonians strive for the summertime sparkle of Broken Social Scene without ever actualising their ambition. Tracks like Still Surf Yeah glimmer with infectiously dreamy hooks but amidst the drabness of a humdrum set this vibrancy is lost in the audience’s obvious apathy.
And then the carcass arrives; Uncle John & Whitlock trudge into the fore with a gaunt menace only the deceased can contrive. This band has never conformed – their terrifying zombie blues is still as luridly bloodthirsty as ever. What’s changed is the crowd: The frozen faces once unable to comprehend the chaos before them have been replaced by rapturous recitals and uncontrollable limb-shaking. And maybe that’s why it’s finished: the job is done. But right now none of this matters because, quite simply, There Is Nothing Else.
Preaching psychotically over the swamp-infested soul of Riverside, frontman Jacob Lovett is manically testifying “When you fall in you don’t come back” like a man possessed. But such metaphorical premonitions slink away unnoticed in a riotous atmosphere provoked by the hillbilly stomps of This Train and Hard Rain. The band’s searing velocity is affirmed during the ravaged Hospital when Raydale Dower’s bass string snaps in two as Matthew Black’s pneumatic drumming pummels the venue into submission.
Having blistered the eardrums with a crunching Maryhill Vibe, Lovett impulsively wields himself into his disciples with nihilistic disdain during Black Hat’s anarchic finale. Leaving the stage to the rampant accolades of a dumfounded crowd, he wails: “That’s it finished ” it’s doing my fucking head in”. After such an exhilaratingly short life, there’s surely no better epitaph for Uncle John & Whitelock’s headstone.
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