Pyrotechnics at The Pig
BEN THOMPSON on Sloth Metropolis and the debut UK gig of Tabernacle
Sloth Metropolis
Looking back on amazing gigs that have happened out of the blue, there’s often a good omen in the run-up – a more optimistic counterpoint to the flapping wings of a murder of crows that might presage a brutal slaughter in a Hammer Horror film. In the case of Sloth Metropolis – a Huddersfield via Glasgow quintet of latter-day psychedelic visionaries – the runes of imminent delirium can be read on keyboard player Alastair Milton’s t-shirt.
Or, to be more precise, not just on the t-shirt itself – though any garment adorned with the name of The League of Gentlemen’s embittered fictional road warriors Creme Brûlée (the band that gave the world the slogan “It’s a shit business”) is of course to be coveted – it’s the fact that he changes out of it and into a proper shirt with a collar and everything before the band actually go on. This behaviour pattern suggests a well-honed and humourful aesthetic combined with a real seriousness of purpose.
Sloth Metropolis has somehow managed to release several concept albums uncovering the transmutation of man into sloth without as yet attracting the attention of the mainstream media. On discovering that much of the most expansively presented of these – the ocean blue vinyl LP The Moth Necropolis – was recorded individually at home during the first national lockdown, it would be possible (although not necessary) to view the whole project as a prophetic vision of collapsing post-Covid work ethics.
Their music speaks for itself in the languages of prog and psych, with Milton’s powerhouse Brian-Auger-meets-Keith Emerson keyboards giving it a mighty bottom end. The obvious overall comparison would be the great Welsh ensemble Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci at their wildest and most pastoral, just before they signed to Fontana. But lyricist Calum Calderwood (dressed as a forgotten disciple from bible days, whose gnostic gospel on the universal benefits of gingham has somehow been lost to us) pairs a voice strong enough to sustain the most impassioned pyrotechnics with electric violin playing that recalls John Mayall’s beloved Chicago septet The Flock.
Tabernacle
The song Band Together from their 2020 album Humanise is an affecting celebration of the ritual element in the gig-going experience – “We won’t be too long, we’re just checking the sound/first band’s at half eight grab a drink and hang around/ fiver on the door, aye change is just fine/hold out your hand, let me give you the sign”. This whole night – boldly scheduled on a Monday but met with wild approbation by a healthy and well-refreshed crowd – is a joyous affirmation of the persistence of great music in grass-roots venues in the face of hard times, spiralling costs and wilful sabotage by a malevolent government.
Headliners Tabernacle have somehow made it all the way over from San Francisco to play their debut UK show in the town where some wizened locals insist Bob Marley did the same thing. It’s a propitious landfall for a band who would go down a storm at Jack in the Green. Their modus operandi is “traditional ballads of the British Isles played loud and heavy” which is a great idea that this beautifully balanced quartet flesh out brilliantly. Their music has been appealingly described as “Fairport Convention meet Cream” but at times the interplay of bell-clear vocalist Caira Paravel and floppy-hatted axe-wizard Walker Phillips goes far enough out there to merit the yet more tantalising description “Judy Dyble sings Sabbath”.
Oh and if you’re still wondering who killed cock robin, the chances are Ozzy Osbourne bit his head off.
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