Live Review: Boris, Mt Mountain, The Pissedcolas

Never mind starting things gently. The Pissedcolas made for a brutish opening act, their blunt-as-a-sledgehammer twin-guitar sound augmented by a Moog-like modular synth that gurgled and raised all sorts of unholy mischief. Mt Mountain were a subtler proposition, building their set with nuanced atmospherics that suggested some repugnant creature of doom was inching inevitably closer. A band who appear to be increasingly assertive and confident with each appearance, their “in the works” debut LP will doubtless be worth salivating for. 

It’s been two years and four albums since Boris last graced the Rosemount, returning tonight with a set littered with historic glories. Opening with the almost conventional rocker Melody, it was soon followed by J-garage thrasher Pink with its interlocking tremolo riffs and outlandish psych derangements. Having initially developed from insular performers unwilling to expose their faltering English to their fans, Boris have thawed and opened up considerably. Their faster numbers now also feature many whoops and tortured wolf howls, which sometimes hit the mark and sometimes sounded a little forced. By contrast, the 30 seconds of dead silence — barring some nervous shuffling and the clink of the barman picking up glasses — was deadly effective and bordered on the uncomfortable as the band focused their inner-mojo for Angel — a vast prog excursion that journeyed from sublime moments of hushed wonder to torrents of passionate noise. Emotionally draining to the point of exhaustion, tonight’s take was arguably a blue sky mile better than the album version, testament to Boris’ immense talent for sculpting beauty out of sonic masochism.

To close, the flagellating Quicksilver ceded to the indescribably brutal riff of Vomitself — a sound so unfeasibly guttural, so catastrophic, it could only be described as devil-raising. After waving a mysterious, static-producing box over his head, drummer Atsuo stood on his kit meditating as if in a ritualistic trance, before saluting the audience and stagediving. He returned to thrash his gong within inches of its life over the inevitable droning climax. As the band farewelled, various front row members collapsed in a heap whilst trying to catch a drumstick, either that or because of some structural damage to their legs incurred from absorbing horrific quantities of seismic oscillations that had caused their flesh and bone to subside. Amidst the pandemonium, it was hard to tell.