Almost a fortnight after my last memorable visit, I returned to the South Coast for my first gig of the autumn, courtesy of Floridian industrial pervo-rockers Genitorturers. I would’ve seen them in London the following day had it not been announced that my favourite aggrotech blasphemers Psyclon Nine would be supporting them on every date except that one, so Brighton it was.
In something of a vicious reversal, P9 ended up pulling out with no explanation, Welsh five-piece Black Lakes filling their slot. Gutted, I decided to make the jaunt down anyhow, having waited years to see Gen and co. on stage.
Local band Sypha kickstarted the night with their brand of moody alt-rock, vocalist Alicia Pilling dressed ready for a post-gig club night. The likes of ‘Limbo (See You on the Other Side)’ and ‘The Afterparty’ reminded me of some of the stuff that inducted me into the metalverse a quarter-century ago. I didn’t hate it, and the band didn’t outstay its welcome. Succinct but effective.
Unlike what followed.
Strumming their strings somewhere between hard rock and grunge, Black Lakes left me lamenting P9’s absence all the more throughout their set, generic, leaden, and void of verve as their sound was. They clearly seemed to be having a great time onstage, guitarist James Rowlands mugging my lens with lyrics at one point, but their enthusiasm ultimately failed to sell me the likes of ‘Avarice‘ or ‘Dissident‘, their setlist landing as an indistinct burr of college-radio angst. As such, I felt immense relief when the aptly named ‘Dead Gods’ brought the set to its end.
Things perked up considerably once the headliners hit the stage, the band kicking things off with the riotous ‘Revolution‘, a masked, leatherclad Gen making her presence felt even with her slightly submerged vocals. Next came the spoogetastic industrial menace of ‘Cum Junkie‘, during which Gen saw fit to stroke my face with the dildo sabre she wielded, right on the choral line “you know you want it from me” — still not sure what to make of that. Peak depravity, however, arose during ‘Devil in a Bottle‘ (the band’s cry for help to Alcoholics Anonymous), with an indecently exposed Satan shaking his saveloy before a decidedly female-weighted audience, eliciting screams from the ladies in the front row. Good unclean fun.
Other highlights included an acute reversal of BDSM dynamics during the pulsating ‘House of Shame‘; a monster preacher’s failed exorcism during the hard-driving depravity of ‘Lecher Bitch‘; and said preacher crawling around, disrobed, with bits of the Bible stapled onto him during Sadean shredfest ‘120 Days‘, a firm favourite of mine. However, not all the stops were pulled out for the band’s South Coast stop-off, with the body-piercing, crucifix-nailing, scrotum-stapling, anal-beading shenanigans I’ve read about elsewhere being given the night off. Maybe it was a stage-logistics thing; what I later read of the next day’s London show suggested they’d at least put on more of a spectacle for the Big Smoke.
Beyond the relatively subdued stagecraft, I was disappointed not to hear playlist favourite ‘Public Enemy #1‘: its choral line “target’s on my head — I better get a gun” would have been grimly fitting given the assassination of conservative activist Charlie Kirk the day before. (Actually, ‘Guns Are Good’ would’ve scratched the macabre itch better, but I like ‘Public Enemy’ a mite more, so whatever!) Still, at least they capped the night off with a hot-rolling rendition of ‘Sin City‘ (which would work beautifully as a theme tune for a televisual take on its graphic-novel namesake), and I got to have a chat and selfie with the big G herself, during which she joked about me reminding her of her own lyrics via my participation from the front.
Thus, despite the disappointments, large and small, my first live exposure to Gen and co. mostly hit the spot. Maybe next time, I’ll see them put on a show worthy of a lifetime ban from whichever London venue they decide to defile.
~MRDA~
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