Cold Spring 21st Anniversary concert

The four hundred or so people who slowly fill up this North London venue are there thanks to a resilience and dedication that has seen Cold Spring come of age, outliving many of their contemporaries over a time when physical formats have become an endangered species. Since 1990 they have been steadily releasing dark materials, or as they put it, “extreme media”, and tonight celebrates the impressive milestone of 21 years by showcasing three acts on a roster that continues to expand with both carefully curated reissues from stalwarts of the post-industrial/noise scenes and those new, previously unsigned artists they’ve inspired.

Preparing the room for a night of esoteric exposition is Birmingham’s Lee Howard under the guise of Iron Fist of the  Sun, whose ‘Power Histrionics’ attracted Cold Spring to sign him in 2009. Tonight’s short set seems to consist of two pieces of sculpted feedback forming billowing clouds of spiked, electric noise. As raw synth saws through the  cacophony, looping short simple funereal passages, Howard goes red in the face screaming into his tannoy system, a bilious rage distorted and disturbing as his catharsis is publicly broadcast. While not the most original of sounds, Iron Fist of the Sun throws a solid slap to the face, priming the audience for further uneasy exhilaration.

 

 

 

Next up are Skullflower, performing as a duo tonight with Matthew Bower alternating between small keyboard, guitar and microphone joined by Samantha Davies on guitar. Davies, standing stock still for most of the set, slowly and steadily launches wave after wave of power drones that form a thick mast around which Bower conjures up a writhing, wrestling ferocity, relentless yet severely focussed. A swarming hyperactive noise results, overloading senses already assaulted by their backdrop of degraded VHS footage montaging giallo-esque death scenes. The throbbing miasma expels the faculties with ease – any sense of time and place is extinguished – giving a genuine gift to those seeking respite from regularity.

 

Such is the force with which Bower and Davies captivate their audience one begins to wonder whether tonight’s final act will have the capacity to re-set and seize our attention. Sweden’s Mz.412 rarely play live and the original line-up has come together tonight to coincide with Cold Spring’s reissuing of the five albums they released between the mid-nineties and mid-noughties. Best known for their leader Henrik ‘Nordvargr’ Björkk’s more prolific solo output, Mz.412’s sound seems simple on record: a ritual of slow cycling kick drums set a basic grid onto which electronic atmospheres are draped occasionally invaded by excerpts of raving radio evangelists, military percussion and lo-end bass rumbles. And tonight is no exception – however, it is combined with a performance of theatrical proportions that skillfully channels their subtle soundtracks into something much more alluring.

The stage is set with two small tables covered in freshly laundered white tablecloths positoned either side of a metallic pulpit each sporting a collection of small electronic gadgetry. Visuals of scorched glass and dripping water cover the back of the stage as a deep rumbling accompanies the first player to the stage. Dressed in black trousers, crisp white shirt and black tie, the figure arrives behind one of the tables head and face completely covered by a black hood styled somewhere between a fencing mask and that of a medieval executioner. As the screen bursts into flames a second person, identically dressed enters from the opposite side, fiddles with the gadgetry setting an alarm squalling as the final, taller figure – presumably Nordvargr – reaches the pulpit centre stage, also identically dressed save for a skinny vestment-like ‘stole’ instead of a tie. The overall effect is that of an alien congregation or an arcane mass as a horn fanfare announces its commencement with drum machine tattoos  parading religiously around the room (not for the last time bringing the work of Laibach to mind). For the next hour we are treated to a river of propulsive, undulating bass reverberations felt in the chest more than the ear, underwriting violent stabs of buzzing white noise, waves of dark malevolent strings, and eerie ambience recontextualising vocal samples as sinister fragmentary hauntings. The majority of these building sonic events are executed in perfect time with the onscreen edits – from church arches bursting into flames through ancient star charts splattered in blood to tree bark lacerated by lightning – to such an extent that it’s debatable how much is prerecorded. But it really doesn’t matter, this isn’t about putting any feats of dexterity on display or po-faced artistry, instead its about creating a thrilling atmosphere born of the imagination – and one that is somehow achieved from the most minimal of movements. The three hooded figures remain largely still throughout, with just their hands lightly flitting from one small gadget to the next (apart from some theremin action midset), standing stiffly upright facing front at all times never deviating from an authoritative, ministerial stance, until they march off the stage at the set’s dizzying climax.

 

Surprisingly, perhaps, the evening was remarkably well-balanced, taking the audience from new, angry blood through masterful intensities to fantasy theatrics, leaving you with a satisfied sense of being well-nourished on creative clamor.

Photography: Justine Bleasdale (c)