45. Kylesa
O2 Academy Islington
30 January 2014
This was my second time at this particular venue, the first being a surprisingly life-affirming brush with the sadly neglected Jesus Jones, remember them? No, neither does anyone else. But they were delightful, in a dial-up-internet kind of way. Tonight, though, the vibe is different. The friend is different. And the band? Very different. Enter Kylesa, a sludge metal juggernaut from Tennessee with enough distortion to register on seismographs.
Now, my mate is into metal and has endured more than his fair share of my own musical odysseys. So, when he said, “We’re seeing Kylesa,” it wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a discussion. It was more of a decree. Fine. We are going to see goddamn Kylesa. I’ve had weirder Thursdays.
First up was the support act: Sierra, a Canadian prog-metal band who look like they woke up in a tent at Burning Man and decided to stay on the road. Their set is a heady blend of 1970s fuzz, cosmic wailing, and riffs so angular they probably have warning labels. They’re charming too, chatty at the merch table, happy to sign their album Pslip, which is printed on brown vinyl. A colour that screams “earthy prog mysticism” or possibly “the cheapest colour option at the vinyl pressing plant.” Either way, bold.
Then Kylesa take the stage. Admittedly, I walked in knowing nothing beyond “sludge metal” and “this will be loud.” But they win me over, and not just with volume. This isn’t your average, glacially paced, bong-haze stoner sludge. This is sludge with ambition. At one point, they produce a theremin. A theremin! Because what says “crushing riff apocalypse” like the sound of a wailing UFO’s reversing signal?
The vocals are split between two guitarists, one of whom happens to be a woman, rare in this scene. For some in the audience it may well be their first encounter with one, so the security guards are being extra attentive, ready to jump in and start hosing down anyone who gets a bit over-excited.
Musically, though, it’s tight. Brutal, yes, but dynamic. Just when you think they’re going to lean into a sludge spiral and disappear into the floorboards, they switch gears, tempo shifts, double-drumming explosions, actual melody. It’s heavy, but with an occasional lightness of touch, like Godzilla doing ballet.
And by the end, I’m, dare I say it, kind of into it. I’m not about to go full battle jacket or start quoting Sleep B-sides at dinner parties, but still. I came for the tinnitus and stayed for the theremin.