A Place To bury Strangers at KCLSU, 6th April 2009

Mon 6 Apr – A Place to Bury Strangers, Darker My Love and Dead Confederate

On some nights you're lucky if you get one good performance; tonight the crowd of baying noise lovers got three.

To start things off in dramatic fashion were the Dead Confederates, from Athens, Georgia. The five members create quite a racket, somewhere between grunge and post rock. Swooping guitar climaxes and moody instrumentals are their forte, led by frontman Hardy Morris' pained delivery. The vocalist/guitarist stomps insolently at the front of the stage, his lean frame and slacker fringe lending him a childish air. Not that he or his troupe were apathetic; quite the opposite. Their dark, slightly Southern Gothic brand of post rock is delivered with serious intensity. The drums drums crash with vigour and the guitars burn with great fire and angst. It was quite something to behold.

Darker my love were up against a sterling previous performance but held their own against two heavyweight noise mongers. More reminiscent of bands like BRMC, Mad Action and the like, they had the added weapon of versatility in their bow. The fuzzy, bluesy stomp reminiscent of 'Spread your love' would slyly transform into a droney lullaby then zip into a krautrock groove. All in the space of one song. Impressive.

The last time I saw APTBS, I have to admit I was underwhelmed. It was at a pokey London bar, The Social, and the addictive, catchy, sinister songs of their debut were reduced to dirgey noise. The band grew tired easily and ended their set swiftly. Perhaps that encounter had left me with lesser hopes for this show, but I appreciated this performance a lot better.

Just before the band ready themselves, Oliver Ackermann, leader of the New York trio, steps on his infamous collection of guitar pedals. My word. What an inhuman, unnatural squall of noise. it sounds like a thousand banshees drowning. A group of fans gather excitedly around the pedals. Not since My Bloody Valentine have a few pedals achieved such reverence.

Their set is terrifying, thrilling, hypnotic. Ackermann looms over the crowd arching and careening wildly across the stage, wielding his guitar like it's ready to attack him. The scattergun drums of the record are admirably replicated, the bass loud and foreboding. The band offer up a batch of new songs; one which stuck out was a mainly instrumental piece, with a hint of Japanese influence running through it. Although the sound isn't perfect, and the vocals are still lost in the whirlwind of sound, the songs come through much better. 'To fix a gash in your head', is especially thrilling.

The band play against a striking visual background, moody black and white abstractions complimenting the music. At one point a strobe show enforces the audience into a hallucinatory trance, exacerbated by the sinister drones emanating from the guitars. A couple of drunks flay wildly in the crowd, and there are hints of things turning ugly. Ackermann stops and stares out blankly at the crowd, then launches into a ferocious assault on his guitar, he spins and slams it against the floor, and for a few moments you feel unsafe.

But then guitars screech to a halt, the drums fade and the three men walk off dazed. In a few hours, your ears will begin ringing but you'll know it was all worth it.