Psych Sunday @ Broadcast, Glasgow, 27 September
Six bands, six hours, and all for a tenner. And whilst tonight’s international contingent are fresh from the more celebrated Liverpool Psych Fest, this more modest cousin still represents a stellar line-up, augmented by local drone merchants The Cherry Wave (“Tonight’s show confirms we’ve not lost our knack for clearing a room of people in the space of a few minutes,” they deadpan) and the folky psychedelia of Black Cat Revue.
Malmö’s Death and Vanilla look almost relieved each time a track ends successfully, technical glitches and borrowed hardware the ghosts in tonight’s machine. But they need not have worried; guitar, vocals, vibraphone and box of tricks, and there’s a John Barry feel to their subtle, spectral layers, with Necessary Distortions – opener from this year’s To Where the Wild Things Are LP – unfurling into something icy and crenelated; they’ve been listening to too many Broadcast records for sure, but that’s no bad thing.
As if living up to their moniker, Montreal noise-smiths No Joy offer zero smiles… or even any acknowledgment that there’s an audience present. Instead: a blur of concrete riffs and tracks that bleed into one another, the melodic detail joyously lost in the thrum and fuzz, Jasamine White-Gluz’s vocals barely there, like Babes in Toyland covering early Lush. In Michael Farsky they have a bass player who doesn’t so much play his instrument as wrestle with it; in league with the twin guitars and brooding drums, there’s something seismic to all this, particularly with heads lowered for their bruising finale as if in prayer.
The shoegaze of St Petersburg’s Pinkshinyultrablast is more orthodox – if orthodoxy translates as expressive, magnetic noise full of arch and soar, pivot and spin. Singer Lyubov warbles away delightfully, channelling the spirit of Elizabeth Fraser, but it’s guitarist Roman – complete with Rasputin beard – who attracts the attention, wielding his axe with toccata and fugue. All blurred edges and fluid bass, this is music to get lost within.
It’s late when LA’s Dengue Fever take the stage, the particulars of the Sunday night gig forcing those with trains to catch to scarper. It’s a shame; such are the lounge lizard grooves of their woodwind-infused, smooth and lazy psych that they never prepare the audience for the sudden arrival of the always glam Chhom Nimol, resplendent in a silver-sequinned gown, her Cambodian vocals a hum of foxy nuance. It’s a fun and slinky way of ending the evening… and whilst “psych” can feel like an overused banner, tonight is yet more evidence of its breadth and brio.