#gallops

what wwhat what what

*suddenly ggains a unicorn horn*

I had wanted to practice drawing Alcor’s familiars, so I made a doodle sheet that quickly devolved into chaos. SPML stands for Stanley Pines Memorial Library by the way. I forgot what the “otS” is for.

While I’m posting old art, I might as well get my old post-godcor Razmé, Anser, and Jupiter concept designs out

Jupiters design got the most thought put into it. She would be worshipped as the “ Rat Queen” as a ruler of rats (and many other rodents). Rat kings are a real thing, when multiple rat’s tails get tangled together and they all die. There was more to her but I forgot. Answer and Razmé just looked cool. I wanted to make Anser’s whole body be made of the blue mist/fire they’re drawn with, and Razmé was given an extra set of wings so she could have buttwings like her dad.

Bonus doodle of Sethany

The length of the wind runs from mid-May to murder. The length of the wind runs from January through joy. The wind runs as long as the right hand’s first finger points to the sun after thunder. The wind gallops prayerward like a horse held in the palm of a rock, no taller than a knee bent for the sake of singing. The wind weighs more than the fossilized horse and stretches from fingernail to praise. The length of the wind runs from mid-May to mercy, January through justice. Unto the broken, dwelling in a broken, promised land, the wind drops a hammer and some are warmed and some are chilled and some laugh and some die. Silently through the nuclear physicist, the wind wicks loud as paper-scraps trailing in the wind’s wake, igniting an empiricist, fragrant through tallow. The wind strikes the wind like rice in a paddy. The wind scatters petals like blossoms of napalm. The wind snaps the backs of malnourished conquistadors bowed down to gold. It is the wind who estimates poverty in moments by the method of moments, who assesses want in units of amass. It is the wind who shakes America by the ovaries, runs the length of revolution, all the calories in a dollar. The length of the wind runts from mid-March to hunger. The length of the wind grunts from Saturday through sorrow. The wind flutters nothing but orgasms and afterplay. The wind numbers seminarians more numinous than semen. The wind is a mote on the wind. The wind is the dust that measures time in footsteps. The wind is the word in the throat of the dust. The length of the wind runs from midwife to marvel. The wind ribbons out within mid-May and mourning and dust is the voice the wind whickers glory, the wind whickers grief.

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The Wind's Measure

Peter Munro  (B.1957)

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Having reflexively purchased a ticket upon seeing the immense line-up for last year’s StrangeForms only to find myself unable to attend, I was thrilled to witness the incredible festival for the first time this year. And what a year it was, making up for missing last year with a wealth of friendships forged, conversations relished and most importantly, great bands enjoyed with that mixture of attentiveness and bewilderment that math-rock always brings. In the early Saturday afternoon at the charming DIY space Wharf Chambers, tepid bursts of sunlight shone into the beer garden as punters gathered in surprising numbers to hear local lads Classically Handsome Brutes open the festival. Whopping guitar riffs and thudding bass made for an unsettlingly crunchy sound; the roaring songs always featuring stop/start stabs both as impossibly hard to anticipate as they were tightly performed. Next followed Lost Ground and a subtle change of pace. The first and most delicate vocals of the festival soared over intricate guitar parts, often contrasting with emphatic bass and complimenting jazz-tinged drum work. The set was emotional and engaging, with a sound more lustrous than the sum of its three-pieced together parts.

Off to a great start! The Real Junk Food Project was serving up exquisite food on a pay as you feel basis, fine pale ales were being liberally guzzled inside a venue with the most homely and vibrant feel. An assortment of merchandise and t-shirts colourfully wallpapered the gig room as everyone gleefully quizzed each other in anticipation of their prospective favourite bands to come.

From a line-up brimming with an assortment of three piece bands, Steve Strong stuck out as a tantalising prospect of hearing noises just as full, songs just as enthralling and some of the best drumming of the weekend. Guitar loops were tightly controlled and effortlessly built upon, stripped back from the mix and thrusted in again. Each time the cacophony had found its place, it was given new life by quick and breathtakingly pinpoint percussive work. A stunning performance and a unique chance to see how carefully chosen rhythmic changes can structure a song.

Back to three pieces, this one less time-signature twisting, more groove-fronted power riffs from Memory of Elephants. A tasteful ear for melody was wrestled with as the bass and guitar interlocked with precision to create beefy math-rock at its best. The balanced instrumentation was evident, as the bass shared as many central motifs as the guitar, both musicians tightly synced as if one brain splitting into four hands, blasting sounds through two octave pedals and smashing your eardrums to pieces one spasmodic riff at a time. ‘Who The Fuck Is Runcorn?’, the closer from their second EP, was the pinnacle of the set for me as each stop-start and stab shifted focus around the stage, from ballistic drum fills to bass thuds to guitar screeches. Drums drove the songs with tasteful builds and insanely tight flourishes atop the ride cymbal. Occasional roars demonstrated just how fun it was to be upon the StrangeForms stage. 

I took brief notes for the scarily brutal performance of Fall of Messiah, but they seemed so apt ill reproduce them here verbatim: “A voice so piercing a microphone is surplus to requirement. Sounds like This Will Destroy You thrown in a blender and turned up to 11.” That really says it all, I think. My next memory - of bands, not elephants - was of the hypnotically spacey, painstakingly crafted masterpieces that are Poly-Math songs at full tilt. Perhaps VASA, who I’m assured played before Poly-Math, were so jaw-droppingly awesome that they melted the part of my brain that makes memories, for a short period of time about as long as their set. Not to worry, Poly-Math were here to rescue my fragile constitution with warmly curated prog-rock. Bass and drums interlocked, jolting and grooving freely whilst a guitar funnelled through an expansive pedalboard turned neat riffs into spacey wails. The performance was mesmerising, as hands wandered along the guitar neck as if a man strolling along a boardwalk, only to find himself alone at the end, meeting the ocean in a frantic storm, in layers of rapturous guitar and pulsating beats. Take a standard prog song, put it through a washing machine on a spin cycle and you’ve got Poly-Math at their psychedelic best.

To continue the hypnosis, Gallops took to the stage. Technical issues were overlooked as a patient and jovial crowd took the time to ready themselves, using the respite to mentally prepare for the synth-driven, danceable anthems ahead. The wait was more than worth it. Such a carefully crafted sound pits layers of guitar against layers of synth, colliding in a maelstrom of warm noise so atmospheric and so colossal that it opened up a blackhole and sent them in a time warp back to the 80’s, picking up a few cues from synthpop along the way. Gallops make something like ‘tropical math-rock’, with drum pads crunching out over real drums, battled with and battered in the most rhythmic and danceable way. ‘Tropical’ is actually rather apt, as the smooth wash of electronic textures build and twist, the temperature rises and attendant bodies groove throughout the room; it’s not long before the breeze of a synth sound has spun in on itself and whipped up a tropical storm of electronica and massive guitar lines, warbling like the din of a cyclone. And with that, day one was over. The second half of this review will be written through much hazier recollections, as the Saturday night ambled on into the early hours and the Sunday left most feeling the distinct sting of tiredness. The double-espresso shot of noise everyone needed on the Sunday afternoon came in the form of the fearsome Irk. Post-hardcore mixed with mathy tropes, the guttural, raspy screams of the vocalist splattered out over the most tonally warped, gruesome sounding bass guitar I’ve ever heard. All in all, Irk brought warmth and colour to the pallid faces of the those hungover bodies that had dragged themselves down in time to hear it.

Ear-splitting kept to a minimum, the crowd picked themselves up for the contrastingly happy, upbeat sound of A-tota-so. Three musicians have never looked more in control of every note and drum stroke, as they intricately wound their way around tappy riffs and melodic bursts, before sinking into muddy noisy sections with equal control. Best snare drum sound of the festival goes to this set; what a piercing din was made, what a penetrating crunch from a batter head so tight the sticks pinged off it like a trampoline, atop which thrived a most gymnastic and dextrous display of drumming. Drums often proved more than a rhythmic backdrop for guitars to dance over at this festival, it’s only as much as you’d expect from thoughtful math-rock, but none did so more effectively than that of A-tota-so.

As a math-rock lover born in the flat, tediously homogenous farmlands of Lincolnshire, I used to find myself stranded away from festivals like this, lamenting the dearth of good bands in my area. Enter Bear Makes Ninja, Sleaford’s answer to the void left by the vocal driven math-pop-rockers of yesteryear. Think Tubelord at full ferocity, with harmonies abounding as a most bright and crisp guitar tone gives way to a most distorted one. All the while at the back of the stage, beefy drums were navigated with the most robotic, metronomic precision I have ever seen in such a noisy band, with pounding snare and cymbals laid down flawlessly. Not to mention this was done whilst the drummer simultaneously soared away with lustrous backing vocals. Stunning! Tackling parts this technical and channelling them into a fully structured song with three part harmonies and memorable hooks is a difficult task, but when they get it right, boy do BMN get it right. The ascending hallmark riff of 12345 (a favourite from our review of debut album Shenanagrams) was one of the most memorable parts of the weekend for me, and that is as high a compliment as I know how to give from a line-up so saturated with talent.

There were so many great bands on the Sunday that – although it’s too late for brevity – I’ll stick to my personal highlights. Taking to the floor, in the most literal sense, where Scotland’s finest post-rock, math-rock hybrid band, Dialects. With pedalboards this big and musicians using them as they wield guitars like proverbial axes – chopping and turning through the air with a dangerous energy – there was no room for math-rock this animated on such a stage. Standing at crowd level, guitars swelled with heart warming reverb, mind-melting tapping, frantic riffs filtered through delays and tones purpose-chosen; Dialects are an immense force on this scene, giving every ounce of energy to every song. Through the unique dynamic between the two guitars - one controlling and modulating the riff, one experimentally hacking at and bending strings - Dialects create cathartic songs to lose your mind, and all of your troubles, to. Just bring earplugs and watch out for the stray sway of a guitar neck whirling around (see below) as energetically as the riff it’s bringing to your ears.

Axes return to the stage was as fun a finale to the festival as anyone could have wished for. Remembering the intricacies of songs long since played live was a thoroughly entertaining process to watch; intimate and light-hearted, as cheery and spirited as the wonky riffs and jangling math-rock they willed themselves to construct. Thankfully, the audience had done their homework, urging in each new stab and stall to arise and break with head bobs of great precision. The band had a look of astonishment at the music their fingers were carving out of their fretboards. Twiddly, fast tempo riffs bobbled along over chunky bass rumbles, dipping in and out of different time signatures with formidable control and with a perfect balance between the two guitarists, wrestling with each other and both winning. A euphonic and emphatic finish to the weekend. Overall, my first time at StrangeForms did not disappoint. The music was incredible, of course, of this I could scarcely wish my expectations to have been passed, such was the brilliance of the line-up. But it was the atmosphere of the place I was thankful to have experienced. Here, there and everywhere people discussed the music and the musicians, the sets and the scene with voracious interest and excitement. Why is this scene so generous, warm, considerate and always the nexus of many an interesting conversation? Perhaps it is because many of the audience are in some way involved in the scene, creatively, artistically, from t-shirt designs to posters, PR and promotion, record labels, distros, videographers and writers – the passion is still somehow infectious in a crowd where everyone has already caught the bug. The joy of each head bang, of each pedal-tap induced wall of sound is lost on no-one; unique to this epicentre of musicians, artists and listeners is the feeling that everyone has taken time to totally immerse themselves in the scene. This noisy world is one of few where everyone is so friendly and familiar with everyone else, so buoyed in collective anticipation by a good line-up at the next of many events, from Bristol to Brighton, Leeds to London and beyond; there are no half-hearted math-rock lovers, and few are more passionate than Bad Owls about good music and good people.