Review: Karma Weekender at Saltbox (Saturday)

Saturday begins with some perplexity as to all the hubbub outside of the arena. It was in sharp contrast to the day before. A market is on as well as a young girls cheerleading event; something from a Britain’s got Talent audition. The first sight is of tall men in red robes posing as members of a satanic cult. The act in question is Codex Serafini, a noisy collective who, from their bio, claim to “have started on Saturn, but have now crash landed into the Sussex music scene”.There are multiple layers to this level of cosmic art. Layers of sound that transcends space and time. It’s as if they've given us a copy of their own version of the history of humanity and played music to it. It’s the sound for the ages - a musical longread that has many hurdles for you to overcome, but gives you an in-depth access into their world. A world utterly frightening.

Following on from that mind-altering experience, two of Nottingham’s best talents show us their hard earned stripes. Midnight Rodeo (MR) and Bloodworm have exposed themselves to almost every corner of the city to high acclaim. MR have trekked through as many deserts and sunset landscapes as those sung by Jim Morrison on “Peace Frog” on Morrison Hotel. Their atmospheric tones conjure Morricone’s filmic landscapes from which glamour is given to rugged garage riffs.Maddy and Jim have worked on their synergy as co - lead vocalists to such a great effect and have come to lead their merry gang to a land of such promise. Their harmonies are sweet and warm, evocative of Nancy and Lee with the echoey feel of Khrangbin. Their appearance bodes well in the run up to their debut album Chaos Era due for release later this year. Bloodworm are playing their 3rd Karma in a row and have never looked back since. On the two previous occasions I had the joy of seeing them, they proved they’re a band accelerating to the summit of the Notts scene. One of the tightest sounding trio, like Marvin’s Revenge, they possess a gut-busting umph with little intricate drum parts from Chris that are cute and clever - far from ordinary. Dosed in navy and black, frontman, George Curtis, looks the part for a gritty frontman. Armed with a telecaster and a bellicose wit to match, his appeal is there, even if he wants not to show it. 

Another surprise slot came from funky foursome Sancho Panza. This wasn’t in the script, but it should have been from the start. Sancho Panza are some of the coolest bunch of dudes around. We’d seen them just a couple of weeks before at the Sprawl magazine launch where they got us all to groove on down. The masters of the Clash’s Sandinista era riff, their jangly, mood-boosting riffs present us with their version of the Magnificent Seven. Following on from their impromptu visit, Glaswegian outfit Helicon up the ante and get straight to it by playing an assortment of tunes dedicated to psyche lovers. It has been a busy period for the Scottish mob who are in the middle of a European tour.

Speaking to guitarist John-Paul Hughes over a Guinness, he quips that “we’ve been all over the shop, we were just in the Alps going through Switzerland and our van broke down. F***ing typical! We've just been to Italy and that was great”. The set was only marred by a string breaking on John-Paul’s Gretsch. However it was a set full of obscurities and fuzzy tones that created an ethereal feel to the whole thing. The blend of trendy neo-psych and distorted ambience creates a unique sound that goes into fresh territory especially with the size of the band (seven members) and the use of a sitar - easy bait to get hooked on. 

Saturday night is in full swing. A breather was certainly needed after standing up for a good two hours while the soles of my feet began to ache. Late night gossip about the anticipation for Arthur Brown builds up. Some of the younger audience members, upon overhearing, question who is Arthur Brown? What seems like a ridiculous question is a valid one. Does anyone know who the true Arthur Brown is? At 82, he is still going strong, his flamboyant showmanship still revered and influential to countless others in the following decades.

You only have to look at Peter Gabriel, Kiss and Alice Cooper to see those who've taken a leaf from Brown’s book. His entrance is somewhat delayed, dazzling, determined to keep you anticipated. Brown enters last after his band. They are all dressed in eccentric costumes, almost by law if you are to play for the God of Hell Fire. It all has an atmosphere of halloween - it's not for another seven months. Brown enters like a panto anti-hero. He is the main character, but dressed as if he is the main villain. He commands such an aura on stage, proving it's impossible to ignore him. The chaos, the gyrating around the stage, it's all admirable to see an octogenarian with a passion to go far into the sea of abnormality and not care what anyone thinks. 

To hear Fire in the flesh feels like such a privilege. It certainly beats the repeats of classic Top of Pops compilations on BBC 4. Brown is always on the move: back and forth from the dressing room. Every number he wears a new outfit from Maleficent, to the Snow Queen, to an undertaker from Whitby’s gothic festival. The oscillations from the stage mixed with Brown's whispery vocals amplify his many evocations. The whispers turn to full blown yowls and the reverberations can be heard all around the place. Brown does interject between his songs apart from his final number where he says with charm and wit: “we actually do have real voices. We aren’t statues”. His band gets all the credit and each of them goes off stage one by one whilst the final number is being played out. The one left standing is his guitarist and synth player Dan Smith formerly of Noisettes of “Don’t Accept the Rhythm” fame. The final shout out goes to his creative director Clare, who has kept the whole thing running smoothly with prompt costume changes and by lashing brown with an LED torch resembling fire. This was the closest he came to bringing us real fire.

The end of the night took us on an even darker trip with the Johnny Halifax Invocation finishing the Weekend off. This can be best described as a canned concoction of experimental blues, ambient, doom metal and free jazz all together. A can is the perfect metaphor for this group and plays more literal significance as we are then handed out shakers in the form of tin cans. Why? Because it can be used as an instrument whilst remaining as a souvenir of your weekend. I have one as proof. It certainly beats a copy of a set list. 

In a sense this festival has been like opening a can. Once you've pulled it open, what’s in it cannot be put back inside. It’s the same with music. Whilst you don’t always know what’s going to happen inside, once it opens up, you bear mercy to everything you hear, and with music as obscure as this, there is no way it can be put back and left unheard. A thought to finish on is to be prepared for what you might open next.