Music Chronicles

Lemon Ginger last adventures (full evening chronicle + photo archive)

Felix Astridge shines brilliant southern vibes on a punk rock night

12 September.
Manchester UK,

Arriving at a dark venue and having the beginning of the night seasoned with upbeat jazz feels like a true luxury. A five-piece band playing with different tempos, La Jiba move between fast and slow marches, as if they had stepped straight out of the absinthe clubs of Paris or New York in the 1920s — only this time emerging from the damp streets of Manchester. Fragmented lights, lifted from a dream floating somewhere between funk and soul. Synths that seem to happen by chance, somewhere between the beginning and the end of an unusual, transformative journey. Sexy and smooth, they close their set with a song that evokes touch and romanticism — caresses for our neurons. A seductive saxophone, constant bass and sharp drums underline the shifting rhythm of the trip. Like rain, like rivers stroking mountains on their way down, elegantly shaping the soundscape. A shy guitar melts in, like yogurt among fruit. Dreamlike synths lift each song into an illusory imaginary, watching over our inner animals and unicorns.

We all sway our hair and dance shyly through this goodbye that wants to feel more like a “see you later.” In the corridors and bathrooms, voices of mostly young college students encourage their friends on the phone to come along. Not long later — and after a cigarette — the next band begins in a room slightly busier than before. They open with an original song featuring a riff reminiscent of Lost in the Supermarket by The Clash, ending in a guitar solo that drifts into space. Their next track, a city classic, covers I Wanna Be Adored. New Issue play to a crowd that, for the first time that night, feels truly animated and engaged. The venue gradually fills with older faces alongside students. They offer something like a refreshing wind of ’90s rock — admired by many of their parents and university peers — and so many covers that I can’t help but wonder whether they might have been a better choice to open the night. Nothing particularly exciting, but well played, warming us up for what was still to come…Meanwhile, the members of Lemon and Ginger wander around, greeting people and blending into the crowd. The atmosphere heats up even during the slower songs. People chat about the handsome guitarist on the right. The room fills halfway, conversations buzzing. As the set progresses, souls become more present, more surrendered. The band play sharper, visibly enjoying themselves more — more confident, smiling. Their final song is a cover of Oasis’ Champagne Supernova, and the front row responds with raised hands, everyone chanting another city hymn in unison. After this anthem, the crowd calls for an encore that never quite arrives, even though the band seem ready for it.

In a venue that is now almost empty, Lemon Ginger take the stage with a soft guitar riff and gentle drum taps. A trippy, feel-good, relaxed yet upbeat tone gets our feet moving and bodies dancing from second one. A band born from the magical open mic nights of the now-defunct Retro Bar — Retro Manchester, 78 Sackville Street (a loss that broke our hearts last July due to allegedly governmental-business reasons, and one that truly deserves a proper critique of those in power). On bass and drums we find the geniuses Llama Llama’s Alex and Sam, here stepping into different roles. Their connection is palpable and joyful. On saxophone, Cam from the band Bluff blows in perfect time, offering candied-melon textures to accompany the sweet voice of Felix, the band’s frontman. He delivers his lyrics somewhere between speaking and singing, dressed in loose clothing with African and tribal patterns.

These bright minds never allow silence to exist between songs or while retuning their instruments. The band dance, their good vibes undeniable. Slowly, more people drift back into the room, vibrating together in a reggae-like groove. Their music hits like a waterfall of positive energy, and even the most serious hips begin to loosen. The parents and friends of the previous band have left, proving that quantity has little to do with quality, and much more with popularity. Halfway through the show, Sam delivers the best drum solo of the night during a very original version of ‘Brimful of asha” by Cornershop, leaving us screaming and whistling in admiration. Felix grabs a djembe, smiles and dances. A percussive spectacle unfolds, joined by the elegant sax, forming what feels like an improvised jam on stage. Alex caresses the bass, oscillating like a candle flame that never stops moving. Felix’s shamanic dances and warm energy ignite every soul before the final song. The excited crowd applauds — his stage presence is magnetic, his relaxed, swaggy aura infecting everyone with positivity and high energy.

We have jumped and danced with them through this magical performance, one of the last before Felix bids farewell and heads off to France. I wonder what the future holds for this talented friend, which musical paths he will explore next, and how many gifted musicians he will attract along the way.

As the evening draws to a close, it feels like a shame that the headliner of the night ends up playing to only a handful of people. Their confident stage presence and colourful aesthetic, along with their guitar-driven style, recall Green Day. Blending relaxed punk rock with hardcore riffs, their songs bring to mind Dead 60’s and Blink-182. The Favours perform a cover of Fontaines D.C. that everyone present admires and hums along to. Their sound, though not entirely original, is powerful and heartfelt. Nearly every song is seasoned with intricate guitar solos, offering music that could easily serve as the soundtrack to early-2000s romantic comedies. A drum solo halfway through leans into hard rock, while the guitar work grows vertiginous, raising the temperature in the room. Hidden in the shadows of the stage — an unusual choice — the guitarist wields his strings as the band’s spirit never fades, even as the audience slowly thins out.

Their connection and movement remain special until the very end, when the concert finishes abruptly, leaving a couple of dozen people genuinely thrilled by what they have just witnessed.

Sad times, knowing this was going to be one of the last Lemon Ginger gigs as a band, especially since later that same week they repeated such a tremendous luxury playing with Lapwig at Fuel Café in Withington.

Wondering when and if they will gift us more moments like this on a future visit to Manchester.

The retro fest 2023 (photo-archive)

Psychfest 25: A day of musical adventures

The PsychFest takes place every year at the end of August and has become an essential date for lovers of psych guitars and seventies-inspired sounds. For a whole day, the organizers take over the city center, offering around 70 shows and side activities (ranging from mindfulness and creativity sessions to book signings, writing workshops, and music production). It’s a vast program that quickly feels limited if you’re trying to catch as many bands as possible.

The day kicks off at 11 AM with yoga activities in the new circular square of Vita, the Korean center known as “Circle Sq,” where tents with DJ sets run throughout the festival. The square becomes a kind of semi-desert that dozens of people—both locals and festival-goers—cross on their way to the next stage.

How you approach it depends on the kind of day you want to have while navigating this trippy schedule. You could take it easy, choosing only the bands you’re most interested in and strolling from bar to bar. Or you could challenge yourself to discover as many acts as possible. In fact, it’s even possible to spend the whole day without leaving YES, with exciting bands playing upstairs in the Pink Room and down in the basement, while DJs keep the energy alive in the lounge and up on the rooftop until 4 AM, never letting the music stop for a moment.

My first incursion of the day was Bubble Tea and Cigarettes, evocative, romantic, and chromatic. Hidden behind a dense mist of vapor that kept them in the shadows, their music could easily belong on my caress-playlist. Licks of sweet electronica, applause flavored like strawberry and chocolate sips. The light radiating from the back of the Pink Room stage at YES shifted through magentas, blues, and purples for the entirety of the set. Gentle drum beats, delicate sways of a dream that entangles your dreams. Their faces, hidden behind long fringes, seemed to underline what I believe might be their wish to spread the value of music over personal image. Behind guitar and keyboards, the two main figures and vocalists appeared dressed in black tunic-like kimonos that reached the floor. “Tatami and flowers in your room,” I thought. They packed up and smiled, and the audience, after a brief and thankful applause, emptied the room in an instant. Each person off to their next adventure. Timetables here are tight, precise.

After a small incursion into the bar, where the vibe leaned more rock-driven and upbeat, the room buzzed as people drifted through. I submerged myself in the basement, where Cryogeyser was just starting. Following a post-dreampop, shoegaze style with a grungier beat, spotlights fixed on the lead singer, they delivered a set of dreamy guitars and raw, powerful poetry. A more personal proposal, with the singer sharing stories and connecting with the audience between songs. Thick traffic of people flowed in and out of a fully packed room. The singer’s voice was sad and deep, with a single spotlight reserved for her, framed by golden, green, and pink lights that invited us to drift away. The crowd, by contrast, was shrouded in complete darkness.

My main decision at this point: do I stay and finish the concert, or should I go for a tasting? In the main lobby, Black Sabbath, Khruangbin, King Lizard, The Meters, and the Immortal Unknown Orchestra were blasting. People scattered—walking, chatting, relaxed and at ease, enjoying the heavy-hitting, pure ’70s psychedelic rock brought by 8 Miles High Club b2b Liv Kenny. I didn’t have much time to spend if I wanted to continue my incursions, but I realized then that Psych Fest is one of those festivals where you need to choose your battles. You can pick your favorites and focus on them, or open yourself up to discovering new bands, or simply lock into the high you want to reach through music. Styles for nearly every taste, from the most laid-back shoegaze to the heaviest, most intricate guitar work.

My next stop was The Deaf Institute to catch the London band Ghost Car, a group of young women, full of energy, playing a playful kind of rock. The city felt connected. With Circle Square open to the public, dozens of people wandered through the stalls set up there, though few seemed to stop to dance or browse.

By the time I reached the venue, the room was packed to the brim—even the balcony and the stairs were overflowing. Everyone was respectfully enjoying this super-rocky performance: keyboards, punky duets that felt almost innocent, and fun, lively drum rhythms that brought back memories of early 2000s bands. Cheeky and bold, they smiled to each other between verses. Very “las perras del infierno.” Toward the end of the show, one of the singers grabbed a Höfner bass, passing it back and forth between songs. A true delight to witness their flexibility, playfulness, and good vibes, all wrapped up in a set that ended with applause, ovations, and a crowd that stayed with them until the last note.

One floor down, in the same building, WOIOI had already started right on the dot. The queue to get into the small red room stretched past the glass doors, people crammed onto the stairs to catch the music from outside. Upstairs, you could hear the soundchecks of the next acts. I managed to squeeze into this little fishbowl, packed tight like sardines, this time immersed in waters tinged with jazz, funk, and psychedelia. Four expressive guys, almost static in their positions on stage, took us on a journey through endless melodies in an eclectic style that sometimes brushed up against electronic sounds. At times it felt like they were charming snakes with “wong” low sounds and house beats almost with an Arabic edge, other times like they were lifting us up to the stars on Aladdin’s flying carpet. A refreshing sip of musical fusion, twisting genres into one, and finishing with a psychedelic burst that could have easily come out of Star Wars.

Outside, the wind was raging like a gale. Passing again through Circle Sq, the buildings rumbled with heavy-hitting sounds that caught me for a good while, distracting me from my next destination. I ended up lost in the shops and dancing my heart out to the set that Astral Elevador DJs was pulling out of their sleeve—(amazing raving sounds). Friends were gathered there, having fun, dancing to tracks from Can, Modern Lovers, The Superimposers, Figure 5… I was completely absorbed, dancing track after track, and the time for my next gig slipped away—but I didn’t care anymore. What mattered was enjoying the surprises the city had to offer.

I headed back to YES, where 8MHC was still working his fingers on the decks in a very busy buzzing room. They had extended their set because Crocodile Band (who were now scheduled to play a DJ set) hadn’t yet recovered from their earlier concert at the skate park. After a while, they appeared, clad in leopard prints and retro shoes, dropping their opening track, “Man Made of Meat.”

After a while I flew over to FAC 251 to enjoy the show of Mandrake Handshake, who kept the room completely packed for the whole session. There wasn’t much circulation of people and the crowd was deeply engaged, fixated in their spots until the very end, their heads all clustered together to catch a glimpse of this seven-piece who never stopped moving, dancing, and putting on a show full of positive energy. Their sound was swaggy, like bubbly rock with flashes of animated ballads, led by an angelic voice—soft yet raspy, deep yet high, all elegantly woven into one single song, repeated during the whole performance. Dressed eccentrically, each in their own style, we saw a sexy singer in white, and a tall ginger-haired percussionist in a red jumpsuit, towering over the stage and dancing as if creating a ritual. The theater lit up, and the audience grew restless, eager. A powerful guitar riff, delivered by a sailor stationed to the left of the stage, rumbled at just the right moment. The singer’s raw voice carried as much weight as the percussionist’s choreographed ritual—towards the end, the two formed sculptural, expressive figures, while the bassist, in a green poncho with an indigenous flair, danced across the stage. The crowd exploded into ovation before the final goodbye. The band had fused with the cracked cement floor, a space shaped by generations of youth who dance daily in this historic venue.

Outside, the sky was pouring, and I was running, feeling the rage of the gods. At The Academy, LSD and the Search for God were blasting a bubble of magic into the souls of the audience. The volume was so high it was impossible to escape the infinite layers of celestial synths, waves travelling through our veins. Another band worthy of my caressing playlist. Many people, surprisingly, slipped out a couple of songs before the end, heading to the other Academy to catch Goat. By the close of the set, the music raged like a dream transforming into a monster walking on a river. Flourishing synths unraveled slowly as the venue emptied.

All hyped up, I ran to Academy 1, excited to see Goat and meet some friends. The room was massive and absolutely crammed, as the headliner of the day rose onstage with horns and wild, ethnic monster costumes. Savage and tribal, the two singers spent a good hour and a half dancing, shaking instruments in the air. Golden and red lights washed over the crowd, everyone packed in like sardines. Heads moved in unison through the entire set, the room fizzing with energy, voices rising with the devils onstage. The performance was brilliant, both musically and visually, even if the setlist began to feel a little repetitive toward the end—variations of the same endless psychedelic mantra.

I couldn’t wait for the next show, though smashed and tired from all the adventures. We took a pit stop to talk over the night and share a relaxing beer. YIN YIN were getting ready at Academy 2—a band I’d never heard of, but they blew me away and kept us dancing through the whole gig. Their music, with tentacled riffs, stretched into alien rock that was irresistibly danceable, with touches of salsa and Latin sounds at times. I could feel the influence of ’70s disco, and flavors of Japan. We were dancing from the first second. T-shirts raised into the air while the singer melted on the floor, rasping “it’s never too late.” We were all locked into his energetic, dancey performance. Then they played a new tune, and frontman Remy Scheren bounced like a rascal, playing bass and pouting. The guitarist, with long, curly blond hair, danced and swung his head, painting patterns in the air with his mane. Tireless, they offered a spectrum of styles, each track spiced with its own authentic rhythm. Simple yet striking projections accompanied them on a trip of fluid transformations—drops turning into eyes, expanding into dotted galaxies, melting into triangles, rectangles, mountains, colors… Most of the audience cheered with arms raised against a backdrop of red light—pure poetry for the eyes. We remarked on how great the drummer sounded, and the band left him alone on stage for a solo that sent chills down my spine—the best drum solo I got to see that day. Peeking from backstage, the rest of the band enjoyed this whirlwind of kicks and cymbals before bursting back to deliver the last two songs. Guitars tangled, the bass thundered, the vibration was so high we all roared in ovation before the final note. Applause, whistles and countless “woo!” They left us with a sweet aftertaste. I had spent the last of my energy on these magical creatures, dressed like peasants. They absolutely killed it and kept us there until the end.

Elsewhere in the city, music still carried on. The last bands played their shows at The Deaf Institute, while the final queue of people ended up at YES, dancing until 4 AM. Sadly, my inner fuel was drained. Around 12:30 I headed home, realizing I had forgotten to eat—but still fully satisfied after a whole day of musical adventures and discoveries.

Peace Pipers launches new album at Aatma

Manchester, UK

August 2025

Welcome to one of a few grunge music palace on the second floor, hidden behind a confusing metal door plastered with stickers, posters, graffiti and paint, deep in the narrowest part of coolest underground alley in the heart of Manchester. Unrecognizable to the masses, but essential for the lovers of the city’s new music scene.

Aatma was the chosen spot for the band, who after five years without releasing a song, have finished baking a ten-piece album. Ten marvellous-sounding tracks that resurrected the souls and feet of the audience, preceded by three special supporters. The space was decorated with care: giant tie-dye and mandala sheets hanging, ivy crawling over the stage, and a non-stop stop-motion projection on one of the walls.

Opening the night was Gavin the Goliath, an eccentric and sympathetic one-man show playing the guitar with an animal balaclava and electronic self-made base. Funny, rebellious and enigmatic, he greeted me afterwards, sweaty and pleased.

The mood then shifted with Comb, who had drawn quite a crowd and were well received. They began with a slow beat and psychedelic-entwined guitars. Their dirty, indie sound reminded me of a summer storm. They weren’t really innovative in their style, but it was a well done shoegaze. Their vibe was making my pulse very relax, I yawned and left the room.

I found Peace Pipers’ Alex and Martyn wandering for a second in the rehearsal corridors, meditating on the night. Excitement and nervousness were in the air — they hadn’t expected so many faces watching them. Comb’s music rumbled through the walls, and back in the room people were enjoying the gig calmly, many seated on chairs or lounging on sofas. Their set slowly gained energy, until the final track — probably their catchiest and liveliest song. “They need a longer highway to move the engines of the hearts of this growing empire,” I thought. Honestly craved for a couple of more songs like the last.

Band changes came right on time. At 9 sharp, the Dead Medicine Band started with no hesitation, their experimental guitars flowing wild. The renewed four-piece looked aesthetically playful: a beautiful flautist and a curly-haired, bare-chested frontman/guitarist, both in cowboy/Indian vests, producing evocative and sensual riffs. Heads nodded, hips slithered. The singer’s deep voice settled midway through the first track; slow drums sometimes steady, sometimes unruly, with strong guitars carrying me out to the outskirts of a psychedelic desert landscape. By the third song, the sand and the suede had invaded our leather hearts. The singer lifted his guitar in the air several times, shook himself, imposed sculpturally at the center of the stage, and closed a performance that felt like a trip through the 60s, wandering with snakes under the sun with a pipe in hand.

At 9:58, the Peace Pipers rose. The room glowed red in half-darkness. Leader Alex, in top hat and raccoon-painted face, crouched in front, tweaking his pedals. Background music is spilled from the speakers; the room was hot, and very busy. They didn’t make us wait. In a masterful move, they blended their chords with the radio sound — and suddenly, without warning, the show had begun. It was just the four of them, jamming the first song of the album “pipe down”.

I had first met the Peace Pipers only a few months earlier, in December ’24, and instantly became a fan. I felt lucky: I had held a copy in my hands just a day before and listened in the quiet of my studio. Their delivery and staging impressed me. The delicacy with which they had decorated the venue and chosen their war outfits was just the prelude to a carefully planned ritual, keeping us mesmerized for more than an hour. Detail-freaks till the end, they didn’t just reproduce their ten album tracks (plus one excluded gem destined for the next release) — they delivered with precision, with feeling, and with contagious energy dripping from their pores.

From the first moment to the last, the audience’s feet never stopped moving, hands shook in the air, hips danced even in the two slower numbers, “Flowers” and “Twisted Love.” Though the face paint hid expressions, the singer’s deep voice and the beauty of his sentiment were mature and haunting. Voice effects trapped us in a glass jar; I felt like Alice, lost in Wonderland, but happy and high. Beer spilled from my nose from dancing too hard.

Martyn was a machine of gorgeous chords and cheeky gestures, elegantly dressed in full 60s monochrome purple with hat and flared trousers, a perfect contrast to bassist Dan’s dark and hard look. Both followed the lead of Alex Hislop, our captain, who never stopped moving, dancing, jumping, playing his bouzouki like he had walked out of an Irish movie. The black of his eyes melted in sweat; he took off his hat, and though not a man of big speeches, used a few seconds to thank the crowd again and again. He looked surprised and moved by the massive turnout. The music never stopped: evocative riffs carried us wildly from song to song, powerful, sharp, rhythmic, psychedelic — echoes of Sabbath, Zeppelin and Alice Cooper. A black tear rolled down Alex’s face. His voice was deeper than on record, his pain more palpable — as if in the performance he managed to collapse and purge an ancient wound.

At each side: Martyn, playful, making tricks with his guitar, even above his head; Dan, steady like a flag, smiling and vibrating with every note; Dave, the drummer, hidden in the shadows, yet his beats precise and sure, making the psychedelic hard rock storm pulse with melancholy.

Alex announced the final track: an 11-minute melodic journey in honor of Pink Floyd, titled “Interstellar” — a highway of the unspeakable, making us long for the agony of our captain’s voice. The drummer had already disappeared into the darkness the moment he laid down his sticks. After long minutes of shouting for another song the three remaining members gave thanks and slipped into the night leaving the crowd desperate for an encore.

Peace Pipers proved themselves more than a rising act: they turned a hidden alley avenue into a psychedelic sanctuary leaving Manchester fans high sweaty and hungry for more. I definitely cannot wait to see them in bigger stages.

Black keys at Castlefield Bowl, Manchester July 2025

It’s gonna be hard not to be too emotional on this one. The band has collected a number of sold outs since I got to know them in 2012, and now I am having this golden opportunity to write to y’all about the band that stripped all the radios even in Spain with Lonely Boy, a hit that crashed into my existence of longing love, obsession and heartbreaks.

I had another job, where they played many of their hits and my excitement was growing with the minutes. Ran to the packed open air venue to get there just on time. the sunset was about to happen and the tunes meanwhile keeping the crowd animated and observing. Suddenly the subwoofers blasted some techno-ish electronic music and the both Dan Auerbach and Patrick Carney jumped into the stage full of energy greeting and getting into positions. The first three songs happened just too quickly and I couldn’t stop dancing, jumping and taking shoots. People seethe with desire from the very first moment, and we vibe ‘your touch’ that exploit on some sensual synths in the middle of the song. Shouting Gold on the ceiling with them was a dream accomplished. By the third song, three additional musicians—bass, drums, and guitar—stepped in behind them, their ’70s-inspired style and effortless swagger amplifying the spell of a night that would unfold through 20 of their most iconic tracks.

The stage was ruled by a striking, transparent drum set glowing with color—like a crystal throne—placing Patrick dead center, the rhythmic heart of it all. Dan, meanwhile, claimed the left side as his territory, channeling his energy toward that half of the crowd with focused intensity. He moved like a preacher in a blues-fueled sermon, leaning into the people, igniting them. Every now and again, he leapt toward the drums, drawn by some magnetic pull, feeding a powerful synergy between him and Patrick—one that pulsed at the core of the entire show.

Behind them, lined up in shadow, stood the backing musicians—bass, drums, guitar—dangling like silhouettes carved out by the glow of the massive screen behind them. Their presence, though subtle, anchored the space. We on the left weren’t alone; their silent rhythm completed the scene like ghosts of the groove.

Shouting, cheering, hands up. Everybody goes wild as “Gold on the ceiling” kicks in and projections bathe the stage like a golden rain matching the rhythms of a very sexy guitar delighting all of us.

The gig flows between hard and soft moments, where rock and blues intertwine in a marvellous display of light engineering that dominates the stage. A rainbow in motion—shifting from deep reds, pinks, and purples to intimate dark blues and sudden golden flashes—takes us on a visual journey that matches the emotional ride. Dan’s voice, perfectly tuned, feels like a god stepping out of the speaker of our living rooms—now right there, in front of us, sharing all his energy with the crowd. Dressed in a black Adidas Oasis 25 t-shirt and sunglasses, he delivers a non-stop wave of high-quality sound that only pauses for the first time forty minutes in—just long enough to wipe the sweat from their faces

A special guest from Ohio steps onto the stage, caught in a single blue stream of light—until suddenly, the beams burst into blinding brilliance as “Weight of Love” begins to pour out. The guitar solo is haunting, almost eerie in its beauty, cutting through the air like a cry from somewhere far beyond. A soft breeze sweeps across the crowd, refreshing our faces as everyone sings in unison: ‘You’ll be on my mind’. They mention their gratitude for being there. There is no single empty space in the crowd and the weather couldn’t have been more perfect for this midsummer dream in Manchester. Hitting a cover of “On the Road Again”, Dan kept walking up and down the stage energetically, spreading excitement like wildfire. As the show nears its end, they take a brief five-minute break—while the crowd keeps going, a nonstop petition for an encore echoing through the bowl.

The gig ended majestically with their iconic hits “Little Black Submarines” and “Lonely Boy”, leaving the audience craving even more. What can I say—what a night. A surge of energy, perfectly delivered just as the dark night settled over Manchester. A dream fulfilled. We walked away buzzing, our ears still ringing with riffs and cheers, our hearts full. A night suspended in sound and light—one to hold onto for a long, long time.

BOMBINO at Band on the wall, Manchester June 2025 (photo gallery)

Whirlwind of tropical bounty,

I feel the pleasure and temptations of the rainforest.

Rain jackets after the sunny sky

we keep on having a smile

Strings that sound like a soundtrack,

wild and soft velvet to the ears.

Almost mystical,

their guitars slither like snakes between sand and stone.

Almost effortlessly.

With bravery, they defy the adversities of nature.

Their breath does not give up.

A concert full of memorable riffs,

sweetening the frantic rhythms of a magical bassline.

Complicity and brilliance, impossible to miss for any mesmerized gaze.

Souls surrendered in peace and harmony applaud for minutes

the end of a musical landscape, both jungle and desert at once.

Generous artists,

who return the greeting,

bow with smiles and hugs,

and take pictures at the bar with fans

while signing their records.

Who could ask for more?

EAT GIRLS, Fat Concubine & Material Goods

Most of the time when I write for you guys, I go for a full-on melange of the night. This time, I’ll keep it short. I worked on three ink pieces during the night, all in A4 format.

The night was spectacular—left my spirits buzzing and high. We came off a rough weekend at the Sounds From the Other City festival in Salford (a fantastic music discovery experience, great for friends, families, and loners alike), which ended in a memorable wall of broken noise at The White Hotel that nearly made me lose my lunch from the day before.

The night kicked off with a band from London who’s releasing a new track this May 30th: FAT CONCUBINE. They felt like the perfect closing chapter for a weekend that only ended two days later in a whirl of hyper-hardcore techno—dynamic, dark, and poetic. Their controversial and electric ’90s-inspired aesthetic sets the tone. The boldness in their lyrics, delivered in a playful tone reminiscent of childhood chants, unravels into something deeply raw. The chemistry between the three members on stage and their interaction with the crowd was key to making us feel connected. Guitar, vocals, and synths gave us full-on punk moments. The room was hot and wild, with scattered silliness and real instrumental and vocal maturity peeking through. Melodic interludes, stage dives, screams, and a hell of a lot of fun made them the perfect hypnotic hard-techno combo to close a weekend of sacred devils—on a Tuesday.

Next up were the dark and melodic Material Goods. Their presence on stage was brooding and reserved—intense and well-crafted—with a vibe of electronic nu metal. They took over the stage with a sea of synths, molding the voice into an expression of inner pain and sadness. The drums were wild and thunderous, like endless storms on rainy nights, leaving no space or rest in this poetic expression of darkness. Drum solos wandered through every track, accompanied by a guitar fusing hardcore with electronic. Fast-paced rhythms, anguished screams, and deep lyrics drenched in vocal effects forced you to hand over your heart and wander into a dark forest of monsters in search of light. Rhythms that evoke dreams had us dancing at 1000 BPM, pouring all our energy into the dance floor in a cathartic release.

Within the electronic scene, you can find many shades—and I didn’t expect this one from Eat GIRLS. A majestic connection, a holy energy the moment they step on stage. Their first instrument? Their chained house keys. Soft jingles that cradle us into their calm, magical process. Singing in English and French, the trio—without drums but with electric guitar, bass, and synths—gave us forty minutes of sweet voices and high-pitched calls framed in French-style shoegaze/electronic. Elegant, delicate travelling the bizarre path of the chaos, they tangled in the ruins of techno and heavy kick drumming. Sleepy guitars spilled into frantic rhythms made us dance, losing ourselves in their twilight psychedelia. Images from “night rider” messing up with my head, in a night that felt complete and gave us the unique opportunity to enjoy this small band from the south of France.

The Rat and Pigeon venue is quite small, and the night unfolded somewhat in reverse—leaving us in a surprising, heart-calming excitement by the end. Loved it.

The Brian Jonestown Massacre

Manchester UK 14.02.2025

View of the front Albert Hall with the big organ

The Brian Jonestown Massacre, better at home.

Oh well, I am excited for this one, and here I go, off on another big rock night in the city—this time to see The Brian Jonestown Massacre at the Albert Hall. The venue is structurally marvelous, a grand reminder of Victorian architecture. Even though the building isn’t the best for acoustics, it offers a solid 2,500-person capacity and great views from every spot—especially of the stunning church organ crowning the stage.

The night begins with a psychedelic guitar intro, leading into a melodic tune by Les Big Byrd, the Swedish supporting band. Their set is filled with dramatic synthesizers, robust drumming, and the sexy energy of frontman Joakim Ahlund, who starts singing after the second track with a raspy, deep voice. I feel like this will put us in the right mood to enjoy BJM. Their 30-minute set is packed with hyper-mad guitars, harmonies, and metallic synths that, at times, spiral into frenzied revolutions. The band is tight, and their performance takes us on a journey, balancing soft and hard moments of excitement that transcend the stage. Ahlund, looking sculptural, holds his guitar in the air multiple times, amplifying this sweet cookie of psychedelia and garage rock.

As we reach the final 10-minute song, it begins at a slow pace, pulling us into a beautiful jungle of rhythm guitars, melting our souls into a river of cosmic noise. We’ve been clapping and cheering after every track, and as the band wraps up, they thank and greet the crowd. This trip to a magic wonderland ends with the softest keyboard strumming, rocking us like a lullaby.

Time flies as the stage is rearranged, while BJM’s recorded music plays over the speakers. And just as the clock strikes 9, I count seven cowboys taking the stage, all in jeans and dark sunglasses, stepping into a dimly lit red haze that will remain unchanged for most of the show. The crowd is so excited that we give them a standing ovation before they even play a note. They stand sweetly, with big smiles, waving into the void, where the dark crowd cheers and claps. The first sounds we hear come from the keyboard, which gently merges with the audience’s excitement before slowly fading our voices out.

The first song feels like a warm-up, with steady and tight guitars. The energy begins to build—we are burning for them, ready to fly along with their flames—but suddenly, at the end of the first song (and, unfortunately, at the end of most of them), the entire band falls silent. They stare into the distance, looking lost, while the sound techs do their job. They barely interact with each other or the audience. This cold, detached atmosphere lingers for the entire two-hour set, making it difficult to get into the flow of a performance that feels fractured.

Hoping it was just an issue with the sound check, I try to remain patient. But by the third song, they stop mid-performance. “Sorry about that.” At this moment, Anton Newcombe finally addresses us—because he has no other choice. He mentions Valentine’s Day, thanks us for being there, and says he loves us. But throughout the night, he only speaks a couple more times—to remind us that they’re musicians and they’re here to play, or to complain about the inefficiency of social media for musicians, which keeps pushing the same mainstream artists over and over again.

I was surprised that technical difficulties and sluggish execution dominated a night where the music was played with precision yet extreme calmness by every member of the band. From the very beginning, I could feel the crowd’s energy—we were eager to dance, connect, feel their music, and vibrate with them. However, the long pauses between songs and the band’s passivity slowly spread yawns through the audience. The atmosphere felt tedious. I was shocked that this dynamic remained unchanged for the entire two exhausting hours.

Halfway through the concert, there was another very long pause. The lights came on, and they asked for medical assistance for someone in the crowd. Over an hour in, and it seemed like the energy wanted to take off—but that dreadful feeling just wouldn’t go away. The only spark I could hold onto was the guitarist, who danced endlessly like a snake, empowering his 12-string guitar.

This is a band I had been wanting to see for a long time, and it made me sad to realize that I just wanted to leave. The only reason I didn’t was because I wanted to be able to tell you how it ended—or if anything changed. I wasn’t expecting one of those infamous on-stage riots they’re known for, but I’ve seen dead flies with more charm and engagement.

That being said, there were a couple of good moments—when Ahlund returned to perform a song with the band, the energy shifted drastically, and the Hall came alive, raging for it. And then, suddenly, without warning, after two hours on stage, they finished playing—hardly saying goodbye, as if it weren’t their concern that we were all still standing there, patiently waiting to be tossed a drop of juice.

It really upset me that I had been looking forward to experiencing their music live, and they offered nothing but an “okay” delivery of their songs. No feeling, no sentiment, no expression. Hidden in the darkness of the red neon lights for the entire set, the band members seemed lost between songs. After more than 25 years, a band with so much potential has endless possibilities in terms of lighting, stage design, and visuals—and none of those were fulfilled in this performance.

Next time, I’d rather stay home with a beer in one hand and a Rollie in the other.

Artwork by Maitane Hermosa

ink, A4

words, photography and drawings by Maitane Hermosa

Article for Fluxmagazine.com

https://www.fluxmagazine.com/the-brian-jonestown-massacre-better-at-home/

Dream Phases (USA)

Photographic report at Big Hands

Manchester, UK. November 2023.

Very methodical, thoughtful and with many layers. Psicodelic rock coming from the USA

See No Evils (UK)

Photographic report at Big Hands

Manchester UK, 2025

Photos for a fantastic band from the UK, energetic, rock full and a bit psichodelic, they made us dance and vibe the whole set. They did their best to sound the best, but the sound system at the venue was lacking strength up the point that the singer grabbed the second mc for the backing vocals t see what was going on.

This would affect the next band coming, and main act of the night, Dream Phases from USA. That didn’t enjoy either the lack of sound from the mics

Twin Suns at Retro.

Manchester 2024

I must admit that I arrived late. I must have missed the debut concert of a young band with an average age of 18 that was making their first appearance on stage. Playing at Retro for the first time is a luxury. This young band, the Dassins, with some magnificent videos on YouTube, sound great, and I hope to see them soon.

I arrived when the Sarcoline band was preparing their guitars on stage, and everything was ready. The atmosphere was electric, and the venue was half full. The temperature kept rising as the band started playing. I didn’t take many notes because I couldn’t stop dancing and vibing to a very controlled, fresh sound with echoes of old-school rock and surf. Vibrant music with character, where each member exuded magnificent synchronicity as a whole. Towards the end of the concert, their leader and singer was headbanging, shaking his sweat-soaked hair, a fantastic silhouette in this room with red, blue, and green neon lights, giving their concert the most authentic and punky touch.

During the intermission, I thought about how lucky I was to see them just a few feet away, witnessing the majesty of each member facing the audience, giving their best through their music and receiving love in return.

Something the next band couldn’t quite pull off. Jack’s Saving Grace was like a melting ice cream in early summer. A band that’s okay to listen to, but I realized something was off: an opening act surpassing the main performers on stage. JSG had a very indie musical vibe, pure Manchester, soft rock with a couple of songs that make you dance. They dedicated “Sexy” to the women in the audience. They had a couple of comments that seemed more focused on finding a date through music rather than the music itself. Calling the audience sexy just seemed like a playful joke, but it felt outdated, a cry for attention. The best don’t need to beg for applause; they just go out and perform. The last two songs were decent but didn’t quite take me to the edge (of excitement). It annoys me when a band tries to “make the audience clap more” because they’re not satisfied with the level of applause. A sudden need for attention, something I suspected from the beginning. True leaders don’t need that ego boost; they simply do their best.

As for the last band, the supposed star of the gig, Twin Suns, was one of the most disappointing performances I’ve ever seen at a concert from the very beginning.

The situation we faced as the audience yesterday not only made me not dance but also made me scream with anxiety in the bathroom and continuously vomit things into my notebook.

They took the stage, looking somewhat Californian. Their leader, before starting to play, began shouting at the crowd almost threateningly to make noise, referencing how the first band had their first public performance, which was very aggressive. Seeing those bored kids sitting in a corner of the bar from the moment I arrived until that moment when they stood in the front row watching this band was disturbing.

I’ve decided to transcribe my extreme frustration word for word because this leader deserves it:

“Twin Suns hasn’t even started playing, and this man (the leader) is screaming at the audience as if we were unruly farm animals. That Sheffield idiot, eGdS, to call him something, is winning the title of the biggest idiot I’ve ever seen. Aggressive, a complete imbecile, forcing people to make noise (shouting ‘MAKE NOISE!’), getting closer, making MORE NOISE. Five seconds since they got on stage, no music, and this guy is already getting on my nerves. I think he’s pregnant with his own misery. He needs to boss and mistreat others. I don’t want to imagine what he’s like at home. On stage, he’s a damn fascist, and I’m sure he has a small penis.

There’s nothing worse than having a band leader who’s a terrible person, and the worst part is that their songs are decent, I’d even say good and catchy. I wonder if he’s already coked up at this point. Music isn’t everything. Being humble touches the hearts of others. Aggressiveness for a third (actually the fourth, but I didn’t see it) musical act that made me leave with a strong urge to pee (and scream in the bathroom due to his constant MAKE SOME NOISE shouts with a demon’s spirit. Rancid meat of a personality that needs softening. Not even velvet could make their show good. Passable songs with a good leader are a universe of pleasure compared to this hell of songs that keep improving themselves one after another. They are terribly good and rock, but with someone disrespectful and insulting who keeps getting more nervous and violent because we don’t meet his expectations (sir, I didn’t come here to shout at you, but to be amazed by your show). The audience, including me, didn’t shout or pander to him. All he does is keep barking ‘MAKE SOME NOISE’ like a cocaine-addicted dog. What a delight it must be to masturbate with someone else’s hand at the expense of so many uncomfortable souls watching.

Certainly, a bitter ending to a night that started off brilliantly, with the bands declining as the night went on in a venue with incredible sound and atmosphere.”

Cumgirl8 • December 2024 • YES • Manchester

Manchester UK, December 2024

My best hit before Christmas: I was invited to watch Cumgirl8. Not sure what this is all about, but with that name on the business card, I can only expect something sexy and rebellious. Arriving at the venue was like witnessing the spirit of a Vincenzo poem, told on dark nights of fire and techno.

On stage, bathed in a dark red light stands a Rapunzel (AnaSofia) with a blonde strait voluminous hair that reaches the floor, along with a cream-colored dress full of embroidery, reminiscent of other decades (I imagine her stepping out of the forest in the movie The Others by Amenábar) and black studded leather boots with sharp heels. Her only instruments: her voice, her charm, and a Stephen almost hidden in the left shadow of electronic effects.

Blonde kitten, irreverent and cheeky, with schematic hip movements and voice effects—almost an apparition. She is free, he is open. Irreverent, and unapologetic, AnaSofia moved with a serpentine grace, sharing inner monologues and queered poetry through her experimental sound. Her performance blurred the line between concert and theatrical performance, filled with moments so intimate they felt as if they were happening in her living room. She shares her inner monologue with you, an experiment of life like new is every moment. Adorned with these demonic red lights and a guttural yogurt of vocal effects while she sings close to us in the crowd. The people are with her, I am with her, and she is with everyone—drinking and sharing energy. We are a foamy wave. Each song is spaced with open interactions with the audience, leading to cheeky, sweet, and theatrical exchanges. She turns small details into big events, making us laugh and connecting deeply with her. She is the queen of the space, which is full of souls that don’t want her set to end. She moves like a siren, a land-bound mermaid calling all the bitches to come howl and vibrate together. Her reddish silhouette rises with her arm high above us, and she steps into the pit to mix with the crowd. The crowd was with her, completely enraptured.

Her music is heavily DIY, full of rage, life’s joy, and art in the moment. Between songs, blending themes, she speaks to us and almost recites poetry about the search for identity. Queer freedom fills the space with art, fashion, and electronic subversion, making us part of a fight against the system’s normativity. She could easily be an emblem herself. The audience gives her a standing ovation and is filled with disappointment when “Tutti Frutti” turns out to be her final song. “We want more!” we scream, but the queen apologizes.

At this point, I wouldn’t say the audience strictly reflects the feminist aesthetic I was expecting. Instead, a catalog of all ages, mostly rock-looking men in their mid-30s/40s, praised AnaSofia’s performance as she twisted into a complicated bow towards her audience, saying goodbye and blowing us a kiss.

During the break, bands like Amyl and the Sniffers, Shallowhalo, and Kuntess played over the speakers as the room continued to fill up. My companion, a Mexican man in his 50s and a lover of Latin music, made me doubt my decision to invite him. But surprisingly, he was taken aback by the devoted crowd, which didn’t even bother pulling out their phones to record—they just sang all the songs. His second surprise came when he realized she was only the support act.

The New York-based band Cumgirl8, made up of four women, walked through the crowd unnoticed and sneaked onto the stage, wrapped in winter coats. They slowly transformed under the shadows and took the microphones with almost no clothes, powerful, confident, sexy, and so charmingly original that their performance was impossible to forget.

Cumgirl8’s wardrobe was an art piece in itself: provocative bikinis, straps around their necks and legs, cropped shirts, fishnet stockings over vibrant tights, and hairstyles evoking a mix of childhood and Japanese streetwear. Each member of Cumgirl8 seemed to tell her own story through her style. The guitarist Avishag Cohen, went for a more biker-inspired look: black pants, a leather jacket, a tank top, and short hair, projecting a sexy and intimidating vibe. The vocalists—one blonde, the other brunette—played with twin but opposite outfits, like a yin and yang of punk, capturing everyone’s attention. Meanwhile, the drummer, Chase, in a bikini and sneakers, looked as if she had just skated over from the beaches of LA.

The show began with blue lights, and they announced it was their last concert of the year, reflecting on what a great tour it had been. They were amazed to see so many people ready to give it their all on a Tuesday night.

From the first chords, Cumgirl8 made it clear that subtlety had no place here. A wild burst of hard rock resonated with brutal force for starters, pulling the audience into a whirlwind of distorted guitars and frenzied beats.

The main singers (and guitar/bass players), Veronica Vilim and Lisa Fox felt like punk Japanese princesses. Fun, carefree, and feminine, they passed the time between songs chatting like Paris Hilton, slithering gracefully across the stage. At times, I wasn’t sure if I was watching a concert or a play. Their ADHD-like energy turned the stage into a mix of endless, endearing moments. Suddenly, we weren’t in a venue anymore—we were in their living room, sharing an intimate evening with them.

The blonde guitarist raised her Fender in the air, and silence fell over an expectant audience patiently waiting yet animatedly commenting and shouting. The basement at YES isn’t very big. It seemed full before, but now, from the front row to the very back the place is packed. They are an army of misfits, free spirits, outsiders- and we are right there with them. Our blinking, jumping heads bathed in their choreographed voices, throwing their bodies to the floor reminiscent of vampire porn films from 40 years ago.

White and yellow lights on us as they ask, “What did you have for breakfast?” And someone shouts back, “WAFFLES!” And now the song includes Waffles in it. The guitarist jumps into the crowd and everyone around takes out their cameras with flash. Im so grateful i can see what is happening through the multiple screens. Mosh pits have been happening all the way through the gig pushed by their raw, direct and unfiltered vocals about capitalism and patriarchy intertwined with guitar effects that switched between sharp whispers and melancholy loops while we don’t stop hear gems like: “Do you wanna think of love? Come and taste me” or “My pussy just exploded!”

Toward the end, the drummer activated a synth track, leapt into the front row, and began howling gutturally, singing wildly, erotic, and festive. She climbed onto the monitors, tried to hang from the ceiling, and energetically shook her body, her perfect figure mesmerizing the crowd.

The night turned into a forest of exorcisms, impossible postures, and dancing in every direction while each member of the band demanded attention. Their contagious energy made you want to start your own band. Black lips, extreme eyeliner—was I in the middle of a cyberpunk jungle?

A guitar chord that evolves and wraps everything together in a mystical mystery. By this point, my friend’s phone is filled with photos and videos, and he’s too embarrassed to show them to me. The audience is in awe of them, even bidding to buy the shirts they wore that night. An auction organized by the girls happening in the last 3 songs that ended with an auctioned bottle of tequila passing lips among the women in the front row. What else could possibly happen? Man, they came in, turned the stage and the crowd upside down, and left like queens of chaos, anti-normative feminist propaganda with hairy armpits…And to think they slipped in through the crowd without anyone noticing them…

Review SkinShape Band on the wall

October 2024

Warm autumn evening in Manchester, stepping into the Band on the Wall. The gig hasn’t started yet. Lo-fi soft rock and shoegaze fill the speakers, red lights bathing the space, slowly getting crowded with well-behaved and calm people. After a quick visit to the washrooms (with hangers on the doors), I felt filled with a yellow glow. I wandered through the place—two different rooms: one with a long main bar and stage serving pizza, draft beers, cocktails, and bags of crisps; the other, big and dark, only open for events, now fully packed with Skinshaper fans. I need a drink. Two different vibes, atmospheres, and decorations, which led me to choose the bar by the gig. Didn’t want to “lose the vibe happening” willing to wait a bunch of minutes for our drinks.

The music stops, and from the silence emerge a few timid shouts. Everything turns blue and reddish-pink. The session begins with a calm flute melody and captivating drums. I sense a little journey ahead. The instruments blend together gently and in order, allowing each sound to be savored.

A soft melody escapes from the mouth of Rollo Doherty, the leader of the band of the same name, and it enhances the magic in the air. There’s good energy among the group. The guy with the hat setting the rhythm with his drumsticks becomes the magician with the biggest smile. Suddenly, the first song has passed, and I’m on a time-travel machine, experiencing an emotional musical moment: wild drumstick shakes, moments lost to the magic of the beats, now scrunching our neurons, some beautiful high notes on the synths, noise that sounds like heaven, transforming into jazz and disjointed keyboard sounds. This music makes me want to dive into a purple ocean. Why don’t we just spend our time unravelling their notes like seaweed between our fingers, guessing at the shapes of clouds? No talking in between, just music, and a sincere, modest thank you. They introduce themselves, but there are still some songs to go. They’re all seasoned and experienced musicians and producers. A wise move by the Lewis Recordings label to take this young band on tour with Skinshape, in an effort to open up their music to a similar audience. Without a doubt, we’ll remember this as a technically excellent performance, but also as a warm and deeply human experience that took us on a sweet journey tonight, preparing the stage for the headliners.

The room is heated up. “Bumblebee” is playing. People are chatting, laughing, and hugging excitedly. The vibe is higher now. We’ve gone from a calm sea to a joyful spring breeze.

Skinshape jumps on stage with the same energy that envelops the crowd, starting strong with their psychedelic guitar and the song “Take My Time.”

The concert flows between tracks spanning their discography, from unreleased songs to old tunes from 2015. Musically, they’re nailing it, recreating atmospheric landscapes, with Dorey steering the ship. In front of us is a visibly relaxed figure whose hair doesn’t even flinch, maintaining a severe, almost pathological calm throughout the set. It feels as though each movement and sound has been repeated over and over on the tour, and I can’t help but wonder if Doherty has let his instincts for feeling the music fall asleep, even though the execution is perfect.

The show moves through different moments, alternating between the more psychedelic and alternative rock songs. As if never having felt the crashing wave of rock, Dorey takes us into a realm governed by the tranquillity and excitement of someone eager to discover sacred lands. The ground trembles, and like a mantra, the bass vibrates through the floor; the room goes dark. I feel myself descending into the abyss that opens at the second clear silence of the night. The light over Will’s head sparkles in all directions, and his white shirt, which holds all the primary colours in a puzzle, becomes a metaphor for their own composition. The only bright thing on the stage is him.Everything else is red and purple. The girls dance, swaying their hips and hair slowly. Psychedelia is caught in the aura of the lunar warriors who have just arrived from the beach.

I’m so close to the stage, and the room full feels so small, that I can hear Dorey’s pedal click-clacking, shifting gears. His entire demeanour is subtle, yet the communication among all the band members is absolute. The songs flow, and introductions are made. The guitarist is sweating heavily, fully living the journey, enjoying his solo with drops of sweat falling from his forehead.

In a breath, everything turns to funk and soul, with yellow and black projections and the bassist’s silhouette illuminating the wall. “Barely Call My Name” plays, people sigh, and most pull out their phones to record. The room is packed to the back, and though the heavy atmosphere makes it hard to breathe, it’s as if my restless fears also aren’t breathing, caught up in a velvet fruit whirlwind—too sad to grow but eager to overcome all we never had. All we could never lose.

The concert ends, and the red lights stay on. Goodbyes. What? A crowd that’s dissatisfied, excited, and craving more. Nightly musical exhilaration. What kind of neurons does this music touch?

Every song in the setlist is brilliant; it’s hard to say they’re not epic. They could’ve played their farts, and it would have been done with the same elegance. Whatever song they chose to rotate through their repertoire, it was delivered perfectly, as every track is an unstoppable caress of astonishment against nature while their energy mixes with the room.

The voices of those girls up front who shout, knowing it was the last song. The long-haired blonde, Dorey, lowers his gaze and simply says, “Good night, thank you very much.” And they all bow out formally, waving from the corner of their eyes.

o go. They’re all seasoned and experienced musicians and producers. A wise move by the Lewis Recordings label to take this young band on tour with Skinshape, in an effort to open up their music to a similar audience. Without a doubt, we’ll remember this as a technically excellent performance, but also as a warm and deeply human experience that took us on a sweet journey tonight, preparing the stage for the headliners.

The room is heated up. “Bumblebee” is playing. People are chatting, laughing, and hugging excitedly. The vibe is higher now. We’ve gone from a calm sea to a joyful spring breeze.

Skinshape jumps on stage with the same energy that envelops the crowd, starting strong with their psychedelic guitar and the song “Take My Time.”

The concert ends, and the red lights stay on. Goodbyes. What? A crowd that’s dissatisfied, excited, and craving more. Nightly musical exhilaration. What kind of neurons does this music touch?