Desertfest London 2024 – Sunday

After another night marvelling at the ability of people to sleep through just about any disruption, take for example the guy who came in at 4am, lit up the room like the 4th of July with his phone that he then duly dropped, drank water from a plastic bottle that apparently had to be squeezed loudly to get the water out and then promptly fell asleep snoring like a chainsaw, I have to say, I speak from position of complete jealousy. However, this in no way reflects on the quality of the place as the showers were particularly good and the early wake-up meant that I could stand under the water for what felt like an eternity. Or at least a mid-length Sergeant Thunderhoof song without interruption.

As the nearly cloudless sky meant the temperature was steadily rising, I adjourned to an artificially constructed park next to the hostel to chill out in the fresh air and chase the shade from the lone tree for a few hours.

Sunday was always going to be the more sedate of the three days at Desertfest London, thanks to the reduced pavement pounding caused by most of the action I was interested in taking place at the Electric Ballroom, a fact which my sleep-deprived state and Roundhouse size blister were grateful for. But first on the agenda was a trip to The Black Heart for an aperitif of Welsh occult stoner doom in the form of Goat Major.

As the band started, the room filled up and security moved me behind a pillar and a guy who must have been about seven feet tall with long glorious flowing hair and a baseball cap. This meant, for most of the set, I was restricted to just hearing the super fuzzed long-ringing notes and thick head-banging grooves.

Finally, when space did open up a bit, I managed to glimpse bassist and singer Tom Shortt between the pillar and Stretch’s shoulder as he belted out nostalgic Ozzy-tinged vocals over the giant thumping metronome of the rhythm section. Playing a selection of numbers like Turn To Dust and the title track from this year’s Ritual album, it is easy to see (well in this case hear) why they have earned the reputation as one of the UK’s most exciting new bands.

I made it into the Electric Ballroom in time to catch the end of Glasgow’s avant-garde progressive black metal band Ashenspire. I’m going to hold my hands up on this one and confess I was completely unfamiliar with the band as they threw themselves into their final number with horns and a low doomy edge to their feral blasts that were topped off by Rylan Gleaves’ impassioned vocals.

There was no such problem with Italy’s veteran psychedelic sludge maestros Ufommamut however, being familiar with an act that long before their association with Neurot Records (the latest being new album Hidden released on the Friday) had carved out their own unique place in the genre.

Finding myself back in the land of punters as tall as fabled Redwoods once more could not distract from, or even dilute, the raw power that emanated from the droning feedback, mammoth walls of sludge and lumbering riffs with bass so low, it rattled your chest as they dug into the old and new in their arsenal of heavy, weird but captivating brand of heavy.

In a weekend of low frequencies, they were something else again; when paired with the trippy visuals, mind-melting psych and wailing vocals, this was an exercise in sonic oppression and hypnotic rhythmic intensity with the trio delivering a tsunami of sound.

Popping out into the bright sunshine for a slice from the Legendary Pizza Factory meant I was towards the back for Gothenburg’s Monolord, which was thankfully cooler and had a bit more personal space, even if my patience finally wore thin and I had to tell this absolute tree to fuck off when it stood right in front of me.

In a set that included Icon, Rust, Larvae, The Last Leaf and a crowd requested Dear Lucifer, the band bought the pounding doom with bassist Mika Häkki bedecked in sunglasses throwing shapes.  It was easy to get lost in the swaying melodies and swirling vortexes.

The ballroom was filled with the most people I’d seen all weekend rammed from front to back and were ecstatically received, chatting to one guy at the bar after afterwards, he wondered how it must feel to own metal music. Safe to say this was one of the most impressive displays of the Sunday.

From the dark European doom scene to the ancient stone circle, Ozric Tentacles, the psychedelic jazz fusion of progressive rock and cosmic electronic dance music from the south of England did feel like an oddity (or maybe light relief) on a bill packed with some serious intensity but ended up being one of my highlights of another day packed with quality.

After playing a quintessentially quirky English combo of I’ve Got A Brand New Combine Harvester and Ian Dury’s Sex And Drugs And Rock And Roll as an introduction, founding member Ed Wayne and company brought the mind-expanding visuals and driving thump of their heady cocktail of upbeat instrumentals with the panache of the seasoned veterans they are.

Guitar scythed through the dub beats with killer riffs, reggae rhythms surfaced and vanished amongst trip-hop pulses, transporting the audience away as if in the UFOs that appeared on the backdrop.

With drummer Pat Garvey pumping up the crowd and Silas Neptune adding layers of sound over Wayne and bassist Vinny Shilto, they were joined on stage by flautist Saskia Maxwell to deliver a tight set of mellow grooves that contrasted with the serious doom and had the audience dancing and enraptured throughout as they delivered tracks from latest album Lotus Unfolding amongst plenty of classics.

So, to the headliner. I have been a Godflesh fan for around 30 years, yet it was strange to consider that I had no idea what they would be like live. The brutal soundcheck gave some clues as the audience filtered back and after the mournful lone female intonations of the intro, they brought the hammer down with Land Lord from last year’s Purge.

The band was in good form despite a few minor technical gremlins detonating taut, savage, crushing riffs over Green’s subsonic bass, backed by churning, stuttering percussion which clashed with the violent glitching samples. Even the moments of quiet could not prevent the oppressive weight of their delivery and Broadrick’s gruff barking and echoing screams told tales of a ruined dystopia over machine gun staccato hammerings on the likes of I, Me, Mine, Streetcleaner and newer tracks like Post Self.

Finishing with a suitably nasty Spite, they left the stage to little fanfare, the audience thinking they were done started leaving, only for the duo to come back and deliver a battering rendition of Crush My Soul. The weight of this performance was absolutely breathtaking.

With the majority of the festival seemingly determined to attend the afterparty at The Underworld with the Cancer Bats own Black Sabbath tribute act Bat Sabbath (which I must confess would have been a lot of fun), my mind was still reeling from Godflesh and wanted to unwind with the doom jazz of Philadelphia’s Stinking Lizaveta at The Black Heart.

The floor-level stage area meant that, at times, I could only see Alexi Papadopoulos and Chesire Augusta on drums thanks to their flailing hair as they powered through technical but funky workouts.

Yannii Papadopoulos however was making all the use he could of the small space, standing on the barrier peeling off blistering guitar leads, singing into his pickups, using the speakers to make extra noises and doing Angus Young-style jumps off the railing to finish each track.

In a touching dedication to their late friend Dave Sherman of Spirit Caravan, they debuted a new Sabbath-flavoured composition alongside side tracks like Bell Song in a heartfelt, relaxed set full of humour and good-time rock and roll which was the perfect way to close out the weekend.

The next morning, I made it to London Paddington in time to discover that even at half eight in the morning, London has no chill and I was missing the laidback pace of Devon life, but that was little matter as typically (and to no disappointment) my journey away from the capital was as smooth as I could wish for. Getting home in time to do some life admin shit before bookending the weekend by picking the kids up from school, made the whole experience feel like some desert peyote-induced dream.

But it wasn’t. Thanks Desertfest, it’s been real.

Scribed by: Mark Hunt-Bryden