by Peter Taylor

The garden was dimmed and barred with long shadows as the sun resigned. Few remained outdoors, many had bustled in to see what screeching noise bellowed within. Due to the late running and sporadic length of performances, Jack Allett, (AKA Spoono), was left with only a few listeners; scattered like brown leaves on stained benches and plastic chairs. I sat to one side as Allett positioned his large acoustic guitar on his thigh. He plucked a few chords, reading the air surrounding him, only to realise that the sound was consumed by the open sky. A few bodies ventured nearer to absorb the sounds from his person. A certain woven motion, with roots in Americana were mixed with a devilishly subdued hue of old Blighty. The surroundings seemed to bleed into early retirement before the sun had a chance to recoil at a sensible pace. The sound trickled and found its voice amongst the brick and foliage.

As musician and instrument became heavily embraced, one could only stare in gawpish amazement as endless cyclical whirls of sound corkscrewed the very atmosphere. The second movement lightened the air as his fingers moved with light purpose. Moments of joy in drunken happiness painted a vivid picture as I sipped my beer and absorbed the music. The minimal crowd seemed to add to the enchantment, forging intimacy beyond expectation. The greying hues became a singing plethora of colour as the Fahey inspired collage of intricate finger plucking issued in an honest haze. The third movement was tuned to a low and reverberating key. The resonance vibrated with a sinister tone. Repetition ascended in controlled motions that swelled the nerves and fought the skin. It was a truly awesome experience and an intimate moment I’ll be hard pushed to forget.

Having only heard a split cassette on the wonderful Rayon Records label, I was desperately intrigued to hear what MF had to offer live. They began with low loop of analogue bark. Drums eventually trickled in with tempered rattles and kicks, courtesy of Pascal Nicholls. The two huddled Frenchmen delivered decayed sounds via guitars and various oddments. A droned cacophony of warped shapes expanded and shifted around the room in lights of incomprehensible hues. Reverberated loops of consuming splurge thickened the atmosphere. The drums felt like punctuation to a stream of consciousness; like cutting Selby Jr’s prose in deliberate motions. The relentless cascade of this Anglo/Gallic live collective felt fraught with cannon fire and transcending anarchism. The volume pierced the eardrums and gathered steam in a small space – ready to erupt in gloopy ectoplasm. Melodies formed behind all-encompassing drones and connected with a rhythmic pattern from Nicholls. The attentive response to rock delivered a group dynamic that harboured the playful delivery of Lightning Bolt with the free unit aesthetic of the UK/EU improve underground.

Doom and noise fused like a Prurient/Jazzfinger tag-team vs. Dylan Carlson. The pounding moved the heavy tones as bows pulled across tortured guitars. A thousand rhythms seemed to erupt in the chaos. A blast of trancelike energy was accompanied by an almost 4/4 beat. Such a great fusion was delivered that my ears wept with anguish and joy as my eyes rolled back in inebriated abandonment. These guys are definite contenders for best noise/rock outfit I’ve seen this year. Their recorded efforts full far from the strength of their live delivery. Given the time and space they deserve, and hopefully the aid of Nicholls percussion, I’m sure they’ll rise to monolithic underground captains.