ArcTanGent Thursday – 2022 Review

Waking from the best ever sleep at a festival deserves some sort of accolade. After managing eight uninterrupted hours under a canvas rife with condensation, I’m raring to go for Thursday of ArcTanGent 2022. Refraining from the silent disco on the Wednesday night seemed a smart move, but there were still three other days to indulgently punish my body clock yet. Swiftly dealing with breakfast, I make way over to a now unfenced arena, explore briefly the rest of the site, and arrive at the main stage for the grander opening of the festival. 

In the recess of my mind, I recall watching Bonnacons of Doom some six, seven years ago at the Black Heart as part of the Desertfest line-up, the sextet somehow squeezed onto their comparatively tiny stage. I also recall the disinterest at the time of my younger soul, my closedmindedness not giving them the fair chance they deserved, and leaving not long after they took the stage. A chance at redemption awaited. Playing what they proclaim as ‘Trans-Penine hypnotic music,’ half a label being dead on, the mirror-faced menagerie awed the morning crowd with bowel-shaking psychedelic doom, which served a tremendous remedy for those still half-asleep. Brought home especially by the drummer, as I have never felt a bass kick like a gut punch in all my life. Both psychedelic music and doom metal hone in on soundscapes, yet there were also hooks to be derived from the constant foreboding and menace brought to reality. Synths also warble and warp throughout, cutting through the wall of noise but without nullifying any of the grit and impact of their sound. Vocalist Kate sings and shrieks mantras with impressive tenacity, akin to playing voyeur to some kind of ritual. Perhaps even witnessing a live possession, given her swaying and flailing on stage. Once Bonnacons of Doom end their strangely gratifying wave of destruction, they play true to their enigma, and they simply disappear without saying a word. A redemption of my younger soul, though one that may require a slap on the wrist later. 

Uncertain of how much of FES I’ve missed as I move over to the adjacent Bixler stage, Sun Visor kicks in as I attempt to salsa my way over to the barricade, and the delightful beam of charming, sun-kissed math rock sounds gorgeous already. The tent is already close to overspill too, at not even gone midday yet. Their set comprises of the bops, jolts, and jostles that the best of math rock has to offer, tinged with the gospel of youthful growth and struggle, brought to life through infectiously catchy pop sensibilities. Matt West’s bass feels a fraction loud, and it dampens Pollyanna Holland-Wing’s bright, impassioned cries on occasion, nevertheless a minor blemish on what shines through as the festival’s first real opportunity to dance. Silent disco notwithstanding, of course. And boy there’s plenty of dancers here this morning. In any case, the strength of their musicianship flows wonderfully into producing a real feel-good moment for this early on in the festival, and is wondrous to watch such a talented group in their element. That being said, FES also do come armed with riffs, and they throwdown once or twice, much to their appreciative headbanging audience. They conclude launching complimentary fezzes into the crowd (of which my cheque will be in the post for) to ensure the correct pronunciation of their name. Oh, and a customary by this point, photo with the crowd too. 

If Bonnacons of Doom’s start time disrupted the stage starts of the others, then I miss a lot of Graywave by the time I get to the PX3 stage. Primarily the outlet of Jess Webberley, and fast rising in the three-year tenure the project has existed in, their ethereal, chasm-deep shoegaze ebbs and flows wonderfully well. Delectably moody and etched with mystery, the nuance in their sound is beautiful to behold. See Build from their 2022 Rebirth EP for instance, and that serves well as to why Church Road Records have just snapped them up. Sadly, the middle of the day swallows a lot of allure around their performance, and Jess’ voice struggles to stay afloat in the otherwise mesmerising sonics spun before us, through no real fault of her own. It is eventually corrected, but too little, too late. It’s a shame, as for an outfit with recognised upward trajectories in sight, it truly feels a manner of wrong place, wrong time, than a lack of delivery or substance. 

Back over to the main stage, and one of the most feverishly anticipated sets of the weekend, DVNE already live up to everything their seminal run of releases has promised, within just five of their allotted 35 minute set. Which only contained four total songs, and played exclusively from last year’s sublime Etemen Ænka. Their sprawling, progressive sludge epics are every bit as serene as ferocious, which conjures the essence of Crack The Skye-era Mastodon. One wonders could they usurp that crown when the Georgia quartet no longer walk the earth. They sound every part the arena size band just shy of ten years into their career, marrying monolithic melodies and hooks, with eerie, sci-fi atmospherics, and a formidable snarl and bite, between a surprisingly soulful vocal range. Layers upon layers, of sludge-soaked instrumentals melt into consciousness. DVNE make it so effortless and utterly absorbing, a true masterclass in every sense of the word. They’re the kind of group that consistent critical acclaim will undeniably shatter the glass ceiling above them sooner rather than later. An absolute afternoon highlight of the day, and one plenty were happy to make the trip down for. 

At this point, the stage start conundrum is now evident, as Bicurious are somewhere close to wrapping up at the Bixler stage opposite. What I manage to see is loud-as-hell math rock, with an almost obnoxiously chirpy disposition, no thanks to their fantastic rapport with a busy Bixler stage audience. They’re certainly popular and it’s easy to understand why. A name like Jack White comes to mind for the sheer laser-focused precision and finesse in their sound, while it accompanies the playful elasticity of Battles, in big, pumping anthems, that garners an abundance of sing-along moments and melodies. Their time on stage produces next to zero wasted motion, and metal influences too run apparent through their songwriting. They casually emit riffs like running water, and it spawns a mosh pit off centre from the barricade. A pity that I couldn’t be there for more, as their jovial, upbeat fanfare sounded life-affirming for the brief period I could be present. 

 

 

Crossing back again to a shrouded main stage, as lauded songstress A. A. Williams plays her mid-afternoon set, the thought of if anything like classical sludge, has ever been conceived. Undoubtedly because other than perhaps fellow contemporary Chelsea Wolfe, A. A. Williams has to be the closest to achieving such sonic scripture. After all, her meteoric rise included a collaboration with Japanese instrumental legends Mono, also at ArcTanGent this year, mere months after her self-titled EP. Not only because her classical training becomes all the more pronounced as the set goes on, but stretches of the set quake, and reach tremendous levels of heavy. What sets A.A. Williams apart, is the elegance that beams through that barrage, not whether it’s the piano or the strings that shine through, but her sultry vocals portray a sense of decorum in wake of the dissonance brought forth. They saunter like an apparition in mist; haunting but beguiling all the same. Songs from forthcoming album As The Moon Rests feature greater emphasis on string arrangements and keys it has to be said. In solidifying A.A. Williams’ spot as a siren of the post-genre movement however, it only looks to make her sensational brand of heartbreak all the more palatable.

 

 

For today’s only venture into the Elephant In The Bar Room Stage, instrumental trio Coldbones head-up the transitional early evening slot. All sporting matching black boiler suits, that at the close of the British summer, it’s up for debate whether it is a wise move or not. Irrespectively, they play a mixture of progressive rock, shoegaze, post-rock, and metal, that comes off as early Mogwai playing as if they were a post-punk band. Their sound comes across incredibly dynamic, and especially as cold as their namesake too. Passages of calm and introspection, disperse between blazing intensity, and brutish riffs that pummel when given breathing room. In numerous ways, Coldbones embody a quintessential post-rock band, that ArcTanGent and by extension the audience there in attendance, consume graciously. Emotive, affecting, art set into motion by three skilled musicians who’ve quietly stayed under the radar for too long. But it is indefinable in other ways, that their particular control of their artform bedazzles, straddling melancholy and defiance so gallantly. A true rough cut gem from the underground, that welcomes greater exposure. 

Upon the next visit to the PX3 stage, to witness Cryptic Shift, you could be forgiven for thinking that a group of metalheads had gotten lost on the way to Bloodstock, and stopped off in Bristol to ask for directions. Appearances can be deceptive, and despite the aesthetic, they most certainly belong on an ArcTanGent stage, as their powerhouse 40/45 minute tenure twists and contorts in so many different directions, they make a free-jazz band blush. They only manage three songs, all from 2020’s Visitations From Enceladus, with first track Moonbelt Immolator clocking in at an eye-watering 26 minutes. To call them a metal band even sounds demeaning. More befitting a gang of scientists or magicians that use the genre and time signatures, and mutate it like it were Playdough. Styles and sub genres collide empathically. A literal metal musical melting pot, that spews molten death, black, math, thrash, tech, and the Devil knows what else, from their dizzying onslaught, at near inhuman speeds. Memory cannot recall a time in the last decade where I have been so transfixed by a metal band, letting rip in the manner they did, and with the poise of battle-tested stalwarts, despite only being in orbit over a decade. A prime example of metal music, down to a molecular level, continuing to inspire and astound. 

The clash between Intronaut and Imperial Triumphant was never going to be favourable. I opt for the latter to avoid overcrowding, and to satisfy morbid curiosity for the trio’s performance. A little theatricality and the imposing nature of their costuming implying a cult, isn’t an uncommon occurrence nowadays, though still very much welcomed. The towering, fearsome threesome, shrouded in black and adorned in gold visage, bestow an aura that feels so much more threatening because of the music they play. Some kind of monster involving experimental black metal, jazz, a pinch of psychedelia, and good time rock ‘n’ roll, delving into religion and societal ruin, that borders into an absurdist dream at junctures. It certainly made for an odd journey and narrative. It was hard to decipher what exactly was going on at all times. Samples between songs certainly don’t help matters either. To draw a thread back to Cryptic Shift for a second, where their assault was complex, it was also controlled. Imperial Triumphant have no such concern or restrain for musical logic, and favour running amok instead. Bestial growls, blastbeats, and chaotic showmanship, including a bass guitar solo, flog the crowd for their 40 minutes.  At the same time, when popping prosecco into the crowd, and dumping the contents of the bottle into one lucky guy’s mouth, to a smooth jazz soundtrack, is arguably the highlight, it’s worth debating what the spectacle was supposed to be. 

Whatever Imperial Triumphant were up to, they called forth upon British shower time. Twice the number of showgoers fled for shelter, meaning a packed main stage stood watching Perturbator, trying to stay dry. Having not seen James Kent’s mercurial synthwave offensive since 2016 in the decisively smaller Underworld in Camden, the live show originally was just him, some synths, and a set of hyper-bright LED bars. My intrigue was piqued in just show far the live show had come in six years. The answer was emphatically, far bigger. Now accompanied by a live drummer, and some maybe 15ft high LED panel naturally featuring a five-pointed star, the performance wasted very little time rousing the crowd up with new cuts from last year’s Lustful Sacraments, and fan favourites from his now substantial discography. Adding post-punk and gothic undertones to the Perturbator formula, for my money, has reinvigorated his sound somewhat, as the synthwave well is perhaps starting to run shallow not just here, but for a multitude of retro kingpins of the scene. Excess and Death of the Soul in particular sound arresting and bombastic, and the crowd laps them up. The predominantly electronic set is a storming success, with legions of attendees dancing throughout the 45 minutes. Had the conclusion of Humans Are Such Easy Prey gone any longer, a real rampage at the barricade would’ve broken out. Watching artists grow from strength to strength is something you totally love to see. 

 

 

While the rain fails to let off, the horrifying clash between Alcest and Bossk comes to light. Bossk are an outstanding live act, and had one of the best sets at ArcTanGent 2019. However, I choose Alcest only because I have never seen them live before. Trying to get anywhere close to inside the tent proves futile. The Yokhai stage is teeming with people here to watch Neige, Winterhalter, and company, produce otherworldly, sombre sermons in the UK, for the first time since pre-pandemic 2020. One ponders why they are second stage billing, given their name value nowadays. Neige, sporting a dashing green hummingbird patterned shirt, is sincerely humbled by the turnout. The set cherry-picks from 2010 blackgaze cornerstone Escailles de lune, right up to 2019’s luscious Spiritual Instinct. Assisted by our great British forecast to monumental effect, the group weave spellbinding atmospheres and lachrymose textures together, with the ruinous gale of black metal swirling through its core, to amplify this soul-stirring snapshot in time. If melancholia could ever feel so uplifting, even in the darkest intensities of blastbeats and hallowed screams, Alcest have undoubtedly excelled at the art of forging that sensation. Recognised as the original innovators of the genre, their music transcends beyond metal, and their performance is revered with the majesty it rightly deserves. Superlative from beginning to end, and with the weather in tow, makes for one of the best showings of the entire weekend. 

 

 

The organic, exponential homegrown success of Boss Keloid is a genuine heart-warming tale. Considering how much sheer raw talent is contained within that unit, it still may be decades until they start running out of ideas. The foursome have the calibre, almost the prestige of world-travelled storytellers at this point, it’s easy to overlook that they’re actually from Wigan. Except perhaps affectionately dubbing the full PX3 tent as ‘ArcyTangy,’ which does feel twee and decidedly British. Onlookers receive a six song set, skewed towards their latest opus Family The Smiling Thrush, with a couple from the universally adored Melted On The Inch. Off the bat, how remarkable they are as either a stoner rock band or a progressive rock band, is unquestionable. Notes of blues, Americana, psychedelia, even reggae merge together with heavy, unabashed grooves, and a bellow that’ll belt you into next Sunday. Closing your eyes, you can swear there was a Hammond organ on stage, uncannily created with just effects pedals on a guitar. For just four people on stage, the music evolving before you is dextrous and progressive, on a scale that has a radiance, as well as muscle. Their playing is so immaculate, so tight, and white hot, steam literally rises off of vocalist Alex Hurst’s head. They liberally launch more musical splendour than ten dozen bands manage in a lifetime. Even intended timbres in memoriam, Boss Keloid still embody the glee of an unstoppable and unique force in heavy music, and their adulation is justifiably warranted. 

 

 

Large numbers clamour together for the return of Maybeshewill, whom refer to their disbanding as a hiatus, much to the pleasant surprise of many. They even went as far to release a new album at the tail end of last year, which was near inconspicuous. That note aside, if ever a band epitomises the spirit of independence and self-reliance, especially in the post-rock sphere, Maybeshewill are the blueprint on how to do it right. Immediately launching into Not For Want Of Trying, which if they were the first to utilise Network’s ‘Mad as Hell’ monologue, and galvanising a plethora of copycats, the crowd are all too familiar and recite it along as it plays out. But that burgeoning feeling, discontent, frustration, urgency, is what their style of post-rock succeeds at. A billowing expression of volcanic emotion that understandably feels all the more vital in such nerve-wrecking times. And by word does that strength translate so well on stage. Passion is a word often used so frivolously, but the pure pleasure from the quintet, and the salient, savage beauty emitted from their instruments, is an act of passion so powerful it threatens to take Bristol in its devastation. Safe to say, this is serious arena-sized post-rock. A message of hope sifted through conflict, injustice, and inadequacy, from one of the premier stables of the genre. From roaring guitars, to astute keys, and thunderous drums, this is among instrumental rock at its finest. 

To conclude the night, and in the vein of finding serenity in brutality, headliners Cult Of Luna level the main stage crowd, with their intricately layered marque of sonic pulverisation. Known for their mesmerising long passages of moods, soundscapes, and ambience, almost straying into psychedelic territories, their cinematic sludge expeditions sound stellar on this stage. The added visual of silhouettes through dense shrouds of smoke, brought against primary-coloured flares, and piercing spotlights, seeking, searching into the crowd, only heightened the event of seeing them perform. Having visceral roars, carve through their unrelenting dense noise certainly helps matters too. In the seven songs across 90 minutes, everything is so methodical, so deliberate in its execution, it receives rapturous applause. There’s even a handful of crowdsurfers as plaudits for their work. Performing with two percussionists on stage, speaks volumes for just how intimately realised their music truly is. Winding, grinding stretches of escalation never grow tiresome, down to decades of vigilance in meticulously morphing atmospheres and textures. Glimpses of sorrow, are given cadence to breathe and permeate, diffusing through building tension, and sweeping evisceration. Cult of Luna are definitively among the highest benchmarks for post-metal, critical acclaim also withstanding, and as they approach their 25th anniversary of existence, they show ArcTanGent that age has not dulled their blistering sludge parables whatsoever.