176. Slowdive

Roundhouse

13 October 2017

It’s been two decades since Slowdive were prematurely buried by the Britpop bulldozer, but they are back, resurrected. When the lights dimmed, there was a collective intake of breath and reverent silence as Neil Halstead and Rachel Goswell stepped into the light, all quiet grace, establishing themselves at the front of the stage, guitars held low.

The opening chords of “Slomo” drifted out like the first rays of dawn but this was no gentle waking chorus, this sound was immense, not in a brutal way, but vast, enveloping, like standing inside a thundercloud. Every guitar shimmered, every note stretched and dissolved.

Slowdive don’t perform so much as exist; statuesque figures conjuring celestial beauty with minimum movement. Halstead’s guitar glowed. Goswell’s voice floated like a benevolent ghost. Somewhere between “Catch the Breeze” and “Star Roving,” I realised I hadn’t blinked in a few minutes.

The visuals were hypnotic; abstract light projections, waves of colour that turned the Roundhouse into a cathedral of reverb. You could practically feel the walls sigh. The new material nestled beautifully among the old. “Sugar for the Pill” shimmered, “Alison” still hit like a sucker punch and when they launched into “When the Sun Hits,” it was as if someone had bottled transcendence.

The band barely spoke; no banter, no forced enthusiasm. No egos, no posturing. Just five people standing on stage weaving together the most unholy wall of sound. By the encore: “40 Days” and “Dagger”, the place was shimmering. No one moved. We just floated together, gently dissolving into feedback.

Walking out into the Camden night afterwards felt almost vulgar, too sharp, too bright. The buses, the kebab shops, the noise, all a rude awakening after ninety minutes of sonic hypnosis.