Six More Things We Learned At Desertfest 2018

The bangovers are absolutely disastrous as we stuff our faces at Camden’s Temple Of Seitan (pronounced “SEEEEEIIIIITAAAAAANNNN” this weekend) make our way in for round two at London’s stoner-metal Mecca. Here’s what we learned as the good times rolled...

AKERCOCKE PROVE THE DEVIL’S STILL GOT ALL THE BEST TUNES

Four o’clock in the afternoon probably isn’t the ideal time to step through the gates of Hell, but legendary London extremists Akercocke do so with a look of genuine glee. Flitting back and forth between the progressive modernity of last year’s Renaissance In Extremis and the classic Satanic noise of Antichrist, Words That Go Unspoken, Deeds That Go Undone and Choronzon, there’s a delicious Luciferian sense of defiant mischief. Most in attendance are still physically and psychologically creaking from Friday’s madness as The Promise kicks into gear, but by the unhinged blastbeats of First To Leave The Funeral, there’s a circle pit spinning and by mind-melding closer Eyes Of The Dawn everyone’s fires are lit and asses have been kicked into gear.

GET TOO CLOSE AND DEAD WITCHES WILL DRAG YOU INTO THE VOID

“Songs to dig graves to...” reads the Facebook summary of Dead Witches’ sound. We can’t really expand much on that. It might be one of the sunniest days of the year out on Camden High Street, but in the dark heart of The Underworld it feels like the shadows are thickening as ex-Electric Wizard drummer Mark Greening and his troupe of miserabilists delve into what’s likely the deepest darkness of the weekend. Blending the schlock of Hammer Horror with deeper shades of genuine insidiousness, theirs is a pit of intoxicating, inescapable despair that’s all too easy to slip into.

THE UNLIKELY GOOD-FEELS AWARD GOES TO… CHURCH OF MISERY

“I’ve travelled all the way from Tokyo to see these guys play London,” one punter boasts to us as the Japanese psych-rock kings hit the stage. We’d say they’re worth the trip. Unleashing a torrent of Sabbath-inspired doominess with lyrics almost-universally fixated on darkness and mass-murder, they mightn’t immediately strike you as obvious purveyors of Saturday afternoon good-times, but with beers in hand and a roomful of fans, even delightfully-titled nuggets like Make Them Die Slowly (John George Haigh) and I, Motherfucker (Ted Bundy) can become slamming party anthems that’ll get heads banging and bodies shaking.

EVERYONE’S FLYING HIGH FOR WEEDEATER

There’s a sticky-sweet aroma in the pit as North Carolina’s stoner overlords take the stage. “They’re uh….uh….uh….so fucking good!” grins one particularly bloodshot eyed punter as the trademark treacly riffage and crashing madness of tracks like Wizard Fight, God Luck And Good Speed and Weed Monkey spill forth from a straining PA. He’s not wrong. The masters of high times are in celebratory form rolling – with a look of real purpose – through the first of two sets this weekend. Ninety percent of their crowd might be lost in an emerald haze, but the masters themselves are surgically on-point. Which is nice.

THERE ISN’T A WEIRDER, MIGHTIER SONIC MEAT-FEAST THAN STEAK NUMBER EIGHT

It seems like a long time since the UK got a really good look at Belgium’s finest post-metal exports. Closing-out proceedings in The Underworld, though, we’re treated to a timely reminder that of the glorious strangeness contained within tracks like Your Soul Deserves To Die Twice, Return Of The Kolomon and Dickhead. Their prominent slot, the festival explains, is part of their initiative to embrace excellent acts from the broader metal underground. And juxtaposed against the smoky, sludgy morass of the rest of the bill their sense of odd angularity stands out in sweet, stark relief.

HIGH ON FIRE ON THEIR DAY ARE THE FINEST METAL BAND ON THE PLANET

There’s a moment somewhere around the midpoint of High On Fire’s headline set in the Electric Ballroom where the Californian sludgelords reach metal nirvana. The packed-out room is already losing its shit. We’ve already been bludgeoned by the unspeakable heaviosity of Sons Of Thunder, The Black Pot and Rumours Of War. Then a shirtless Matt Pike strips out the opening riff of Blessed Black Wings. It’s the sonic equivalent of dropping a bomb into an already-erupting volcano. No one could best that moment. Not Slayer. Not Metallica. Not even Motörhead – to whom so much of HoF’s momentously supercharged tank-track attack is owed. By the time they hit the ridiculous closing salvo of Bastard Samurai, Fury Whip and Snakes For The Divine we might as well be stains pummeled into the floor. Much hype has – rightly – been drawn by the return of Matt’s other band Sleep recently. But High On Fire simply must not be overlooked.