Recently Gigslutz sought a response to those perennial blowhards Kasabian’s ever-tiresome yawn-boast that they are the ‘saviours of guitar rock’, the response a unanimous ‘up yours’ to the ersatz-Northern clowns. To add to the list of alt-axe-gods to believe in are the West Country’s gloom-glammers October Drift.
Camden’s Monarch was the stage for swathes of short, sharp shocks that shake and shiver the atmospherics, ominous grooves entwined with luminous moves that see singer Kiran Roy flanked by two mop-topped pillars of Hercules, together forming a frenetic trident that moves kinetically like an echo-laden Muppets band. Perpetual motion awash in a sonic ocean.
The shimmering ‘Cherry Red’ exudes the gravelling elucidation of Mark Lanegan’s arboreal screaming, thudding bass propels this number onwards and upwards, forwards and underwards, unravelling a subterranean tale of ‘worlds apart going nowhere in the dark’. Existential estrangement in excelsis.
As Roy scales the outer reaches of the bar hordes of adoring technonanists film simulations of themselves in the reflection of their idol, the bright lights pin his silhouette against the framework of the venue. He basks in the affective glow. The light pours out of him.
There’s no pause for reflection as they rampage through their set, in a blink of the ears and a thwack in the third eye.
Just two years into existence and this exhilarating ensemble’s mantra is to ‘(Somer)set your controls for the art of the sun’; be warned these noiseniks will plunder your heart.