Issue 83 / November 2017

There are people in this world who say you can’t put pineapple on pizza, but who can really say for sure? How do the rest of us learn
their rules, do they even want us to, and are they happy now? It’s the kinda thing that can stalk a niche-fest reveller, rarely more than
here, this time, which seems to take a more serious breed of dough-head to truly master the toppings. Margherita psych, despite going
down pretty well last year, is not on the board.
Which arguably is where the field levels and all things are possible again. First case in point: an accidental sortie into some chugging,
swirling mountain bop or other. Now, we’d probably fall somewhere between the Psych For Fuckwits textbook and being safe to roam
the streets of Camp, Furnace and so on unaccompanied, and it’s briefly got us running for the hills: we don’t know what it is, but we feel
we’ve seen it somewhere (here) before. This time, it turns out to be the exception that proves the consistently flouted ‘rule’ (we think).
Second case in point: TRÄD, GRÄS OCH STENAR. Too old to be facsimiles, too lengthy of track to form a pattern, too locked-in to fit in.
Having yet to complete the ‘prog’ chapter of the set text let alone sit the module on jazz, we take those terms in vain - but impressions
are nonetheless made. These ever-evolving Swedes (per second-hand ‘knowledge’) build their world around you, no map provided, no
sense of direction, to a beat rendered with a physicality that suggests playing backwards while being reversed in real time. It’s glorious,
and new around here. Maybe to know more, to know even what, would be to feel less.
If that’s lesser-trodden terrain, IL SOGNO DEL MARINAIO speak a zombie language. Their intra-band roleplay, skew-whiff vocalising,
not-of-this-parish mannerisms and, again, originality of physicality (the bass is attacked like a drum) are a fruity twist for the palate,
a moment of sweet Aloha. But, why?
Out we spit, towards Blade, towards the flame, at some point before or after. Therein, masked figures stare us down – faces melted
of flesh, who played too close to the fire, who came to show a picture of tomorrow when the wind could change. White noise
encircles these porcine avatars. It’s a battle of wills, abominable feedbacked scarecrows vs folk who enjoy nightmares, with delirious
consequences. This was GRIM BRIDES – no, still is. No one’s playing but no one’s twitching. Maybe these statuesque onlookers are too
scared to run, too psyched to “psych”. It isn’t “psych” (per assumptions), so much as a lesser-trodden pathway in psyches. Some people
out there are iffy about seafood on pizza but more would balk at adding human flesh, which is more or less what we’re assessing. It
isn’t some accepted, tasteful genre-tick. Grim Brides’ masks become them, or put a lens on our eyes, or offer a way of seeing.
By all means keep in mind the great mistakes of
PZYK cuisine, for instance, that held sway
game – the path of least resistance was
things come to those who commit to a
isn’t dead time. Things that matter
in that corridor of uncertainty
worthwhile. Issues from genres
in history for a former star of the
seen here psyching away.
You once knew – or at least found
to be a repository for all your
been depleted uranium, scrap
all your worst traits in ghastly
vocalist, they’re enunciating the
contorted shapes they threw last
we hurtle through as they stand guard
your Meatball Feast. They’re laughing
rattling the cage, yet you feel so small that
them louder, but never so imposing. Gnod are a
end of. The zombie linguists, however, are about to
your life up to now. There’d been an approach to
at one time: that of the quickest fix. Mug’s
undercooked and overrated. No, no: good
long-player, which on days like these
are chopped and cooked. Analysis,
between Furnace and Blade, is
past are resolved. We find a place
American Hot scene, who we’ve
uptown 18 months ago – GNOD
mistakes and regrets. They’d
metal, all your waste product,
proximity. Now, with a different
space surrounding the painfully
time. They’re blasting a black hole that
unwilling to help. They’re overloading
attendants of a gruelling torture-ride,
the rattles are distant tremors. You’ve heard
towering house of hollows you’ll never hear the
be rationalised.
Three different players are teaching
the malleus, incus and stapes to
multitask. Keys manipulate your innards.
Squiggly motifs have you seeing stars
and samples of memories.
Oh, but there actually are, earlier, stars
about your bonce, birds tweeting and
space hurtling by. You’re interacting in the
PZYK PRYZM, cowering from yourself.
There are suckers on your forehead like a
retro time machine.
Snares rap the outers of the innerspace
Gnod show(ed) you in your past/future.
THE COMET IS COMING, reads the
programme. Ain’t it just? All that you
see in a lamp shone on your closed eyes,
you’re told, is yours - this cosmic mania
is yours. Your brain powers the visuals,
and the readings boffins are processing.
Mentally we’re clinging on – life seems
fast.
The sax is your spirit chimp, charmed
by woodwind overtures, floating like
the simian shaman you ‘are’ on each
dancefloor you disgrace. There’s a point
where we’ve a sense of standing outside
of ourself, looking at the back of our
head. We’re wowed but pray for it to end.
Afterwards, they’ve the gall to say the
data showed a tranquil mind.
.eseehc eht fo tuo yldlob ,erehwon ruoy otni ,aniter ruoy hguorht thgir sedirts – seltitbus tuo gnippat uoy dniheb gnidnats ,namsdubmo
lanretni ruoy ro donG fo dlihc – tlem-ecaf fo erugif a dna ,edalB otni nrut nehT
And wake.
So, you’ve got the base and you’ve got tomato and whatnot: they’ll always be around. But to change your ways, to go beyond, you can
and should put near as hell anything and everything on pizza.
Tom Bell / @WriterTomBell
Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs (Keith Ainsworth / arkimages.co.uk)
Jane Weaver (Michelle Roberts / sheshoots.co.uk)
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