39. Godspeed! You Black Emperor
O2 Academy Brixton
21 November 2013
Some gigs are best enjoyed with friends, a few drinks, and the shared chaos of live music. This was not one of those gigs. This was always destined to be weird. Exhibit A: not a single person I know wanted to come. Godspeed You! Black Emperor is not exactly a band that screams “Friday night bangers.” They’re the kind of act you discover at 2 a.m. during a whiskey-fuelled existential crisis whilst “Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas to Heaven” drones on in the background and you Google “what even is late-stage capitalism?” Naturally, I thought, “Sounds like a cracking night out.”
From the moment I entered the venue, it was clear we’d left the realm of traditional gig logic behind. The support act? My only surviving note reads: “some screaming woman.” That’s it. No name, no genre, just an auditory fever dream, best left unprocessed. Possibly a banshee. Possibly performance art. Probably a trauma response.
Then Godspeed! arrived, not so much took the stage as materialised on it. There’s no frontman, no spotlight, no fanfare. They shuffle into a loose half-circle like they’re about to summon the ghost of Bertolt Brecht. Nine of them. No introductions. No talking. Just a dim stage lit with all the ambience of a Soviet power station. The only illumination comes from the flickering monochrome apocalypse projected behind them: grainy trains, collapsing buildings, children staring into the void. You know, cheery stuff.
Musically? It’s five songs. Or maybe one. Time is a construct. Each piece starts with the gentlest hums, then slowly, inexorably, builds into a towering crescendo that rattles your fillings and possibly reawakens buried memories from your teenage years. There are no lyrics. There are no breaks. Just wave after wave of post-rock doom, like someone weaponised ennui and ran it through a distortion pedal.
The audience? A curious bunch. An equal mix of greying beard-strokers, earnest post-grads, and people who look like they build analogue synths for fun. Mostly male, mostly silent, occasionally swaying. A crowd that respects the sanctity of a drone. Women were… not exactly present. Apparently, slow-building instrumental epics paired with Cold War propaganda reels are not the big date-night draw you might hope for.
And yet it was mesmerising. Hypnotic. Genuinely affecting. Like attending a sound bath whilst flicking through art films that are casually projected. For one night, we weren’t just watching a band. We were participants in some dark sonic ritual, collectively nodding in the dark as the noise rose and fell like some divine static wave.
Was it fun? No.
Was it good? Absolutely.
Will I be bringing mates next time? Still no. This is strictly solo gig territory, like therapy, but louder and with a film reel that looks like it was edited by a sixth form student. A weird, unforgettable experience. And honestly, isn’t that the point?