Desetfest London 2024 – Friday
This series of articles would probably be better off named ‘Diary of a Desertfest Virgin’… Myself and one of the most stand-up people in my life have wanted to attend the UK’s premier independent stoner rock, doom, psych & sludge festival since its inception in 2012, being the mecca for some of our most beloved music. However, the original date in late April clashed with both his birthday and that of my significant other at the time, so our relationship commitments prevented us from going and by the time the dates shifted away from that weekend, we both had young families meaning that over a decade would pass without our attendance.
This year, when Desetfest London fell on a weekend without my children and with the boss looking for someone to cover it, I jumped at the chance to go, despite having to navigate the event solo without the one guy I wanted to be there with me (Sorry dude, hope the boy had a good birthday). Still, it was also a chance to stick two fingers up at the creeping anxiety demon that has tried to take so much joy from me over the last several years.
This year was perfect too, as with the exception of three bands, this was a chance to see a literal weekend’s worth of acts for the first time in venues I hadn’t visited. Like so many others, the festival began on the Thursday night before. Only for me, this was at dinner when my six-year-old daughter’s wobbly tooth finally came out during the meal, meaning that the already painful start the next morning was brought dramatically forward as she excitedly woke even earlier to see if the tooth fairy had visited (You will be relieved to know dear reader that they had).
With the kids safely stashed at breakfast club, I boarded the train from Exeter. As per standard operating procedure, GWR will turn any journey I make to the big smoke into an absolute clusterfuck and sure enough by Bristol, the connecting train went tits up. Fortunately, another was secured in due course, and I was able to resume my journey fully justified in the early start building a few hours safety cushion into the itinerary. The resulting knock-on meant that by the time I had debarked, navigated the tube and done the whole wristband and hostel check-in shuttle run, I missed the guest Q&A talks I hoped to attend at The Black Heart, arriving at the Electric Ballroom with five minutes to spare before kick-off.
With the pungent aroma of electric lettuce already in the air, it was time for the festivities to start. To paraphrase the words of Rita Ora in Fast And Furious 6 ‘This is (Desertfest) London baby!’
Opening with Empire from last year’s Data Doom, there couldn’t have been a better band than Frankie And The Witch Fingers to inject those much-needed upbeat, good-time vibes. With their collision of punky electronic funk infusion, the LA crew brought danceable, frenetic energy to the stage with newer songs like Syster System and more established tracks like Dracula Drug. Finishing with a rousing rendition of Tea, it was the perfect start to the festival, the buzz in the air was palpable and that sentiment echoed around the room all day and all thoughts of the previous hours’ madness were banished.
The next up for me was the gritty punk attitude of Mondo Generator. As one of several names amongst the Desert Rock Royalty on display in Electric Ballroom today, I had seen Nick Oliveri in The Dwarves, Queens of the Stone Age and Kyuss Lives! but never this incarnation. The atmosphere was immediately different – one of unhinged unpredictability and spiky, snotty attitude. The crowd increased sizeably as the band tore into a set packed with high-octane tracks like F.Y I’m Free (dedicated to the LAPD), Shawna Jackson and a cover of, in Nick’s words, ‘the best Kyuss song even if it’s on an album I didn’t play on’ with an excellent rendition of Super Scoop from Sky Valley.
Despite all of this, I opted to duck out early and make the short walk to the Devonshire Arms to catch the first of two APF Records signed bands gracing the venue in Voidlurker. Despite being tucked in the corner, it was a good turnout and the sound was cavernous as the band bludgeoned their way through tracks off their Industrial Nightmare debut. Low, slow and caked in filth, the Midlands trio brought their sludgy doom to bear against the bright sunshine outside, vocalist Brad Thomas sounding particularly feral as they savaged their way through the likes of the title track and serial killer-inspired set stealer, Jeffrey Doomer.
Then it was time to head back to the Electric Ballroom once more for the next instalment in Desertfest VIPs as the Brant Bjork Trio, featuring the man himself, drummer Ryan Güt and Godfather of the scene Mario Lalli came to deliver a showcase of funky jams and low desert punk.
Having never seen Lalli live, a man whose records are a staple of my listening habits, it was incredible to see the effortless way they connected, locking into hypnotic, swaying rhythms, grinding grooves and purest desert blues. They even managed to debut a new song called Sunshine (about making love to your mind). As the feel-good atmosphere flowed, they got a crowd surfer during a mellow number and the final climax came to rousing cheers as they rounded off a set that was an early festival highlight.
With time to go before the headliner, I scooted over to Dingwalls on my mission to check off another venue and see Bristol’s eclectic Sugar Horse whose Pelagic Records released split with LLNN I recently covered. Starting in a more mellow fashion than I anticipated, they built to the super heavy droning I came to see. With the earth-shakingly heavy math/sludgy lurching and machine-like pummelling, they sounded in turns both beautiful and terrifying often within moments of each other. Singer Ashley Tubbs joked (or not) ‘If you hated all that, now’s the time to leave’ before launching into an acapella passage which exploded into monstrously heavy riffs, followed by a glorious breakout. Despite their somewhat muted presence, the music was simply captivating and well worth the trek uptown.
Having some time to spare and The Underworld just a few 100 yards past the Electric Ballroom, it would have been rude not to catch some of the in full-flight Raging Speedhorn. Not having seen the band since singer Frank Reagan‘s first tenure, I wound the clock back to my uni days as the Corby sextuplet barrelled their way through their belligerent, misanthropic party take on violent speed metal. Working the crowd with consummate ease and committing serious mic abuse, they held the packed venue as willing hostages to their mania. Airing a new track that owes a passing nod to Pantera, as well as rapping the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air theme tune and bringing the fun as only they can do with the best of their tracks like The Gush.
Suitably enthused and with the energy levels restored it was time to move back to the Electric Ballroom for the last time and headlining act Masters Of Reality. With the whole band looking sharp, suited and booted, leader Chris Goss was forced to sit down through the set due to a recent accident that may or may not have involved a toilet seat. Immediately ringing out the beautiful tones of The Blue Garden the band delivered a masterclass in tone and poise.
It was during this set it struck me just how many tall cunts there are at gigs. I don’t consider myself particularly dwarfish at 5’10” (even if the internet tells me that I fall into the bracket of what is described as ‘playing Tinder on hard’ if such a thing was my bag) having secured a decent viewing spot, it was literally minutes before a herd of skyscrapers blocked my view meaning to catch sight of this awesome performance I had to constantly keep moving. This slight irritation could not take the edge off a set that included highlights such as Third Man On The Moon, Domino and other incredible blues rock standards.
Pausing to ask the audience to ‘call the fucking BBC and tell them to play this shit’, they launched into a great cover of Goss’s favourite Queens of the Stone Age song Hanging Tree. Over the hour and twenty plus minute performance, it was a reminder of the incredible influence of the man yet he paused to call attention to Bjork and Lalli in particular for creating the music being celebrated this weekend, before ending in rocky fashion with John Levy wailing on the drum kit and playing the Electric Ballroom out with She Got Me (When She Got Her Dress On).
Following the laid black blues sounds, it was time to hit up The Dev once more to see the evil, downtuned filth of Goblinsmoker. With the queue stretching around the building and the venue already packed, it was one of the rare occasions I had to exercise my journalistic privilege by using my queue jump wristband to see the second helping of APF Records endorsed sludge/doom metal.
Despite barely being able to see the band, the seismic grooves and grindingly slow fuzz reverberated through the sweltering heat as they performed tracks from their Toad King trilogy which saw the band blending thick, evil sludge and stoner topped off with Adam Kennedy‘s nasty vocal utterings.
Being the final stop on the way home, I headed to The Black Heart to catch some of Brume’s death disco whose Marten album was recently reviewed by fellow Shaman scribe Lee Beamish. The San Francisco quartet brought their surprisingly lively gothy doom in their own inimitable manner.
Following that, and having not eaten anything since a flapjack at 1.30pm and this being my first multi-day festival since embracing sobriety, I was feeling more than a little jaded after a long, hectic, but awesome opening day so it was time to stumble back to the hostel and get my head down for a much needed and hopefully refreshing night sleep with plenty of highlights running round my head.
Scribed by: Mark Hunt-Bryden
