A Forest of Stars/Wodensthrone – Brighton Volks – Thursday 2nd August 2012
Words by Gary Lukes
Photos by Antony Roberts
It’s not clear whether the promoter’s built their webpage on an ancient burial site, or the tour bus just happened to run down every black cat in the vicinity of the M23, but tonight’s concert seemed to have been plagued by bad fortune from the very beginning. After being shuffled between numerous venues over the last few months, the show finally found a home in Volks. Albeit a home that then invoked a last-minute 10pm curfew on everyone. Thus, the co-headliners were cajoled into sharing the final hour. And if you’re at all familiar with either of them, you’ll know this set some serious restrictions.
For our part, train issues meant we arrived unfashionably late, missing out on support acts Stone Circle and Acolyte. In fact, we’d barely started supping our first beer as Wodensthrone crammed themselves onto the intimate confines of the venue’s stage-space in front of roughly fifty punters. Wasting little of their precious time, the pre-recorded intro of “The Remaining Few” led into the rampant “Jormungandr”, Wildeþrýð and Rædwalh trading vicious rasps. Despite recently streamlining their line-up, this Sunderland horde now sound stronger than ever; the swarming fury of the band’s riffs augmented by hammering percussion and lush swells of synth.
Concentrating on the dark, brooding tones of new album “Curse”, the band have managed to stride out of the shadows of contemporaries such as Negura Bunget and Emperor. This is beautifully epitomised by tracks such as the surging “First Light”, the dense ferocity only relenting in its dying moments as the thicket of riffage is broken by the cry of a clean, plaintive lead. Alas, three songs in, and the band are forced to down weapons; the timeslot breached and the crowd left ravenous.
And so, the floor belongs to the visitation of The Victorian Gentleman’s Club of A Forest of Stars. Quite literally; with the seven-piece spilling off of the stage. Vocalist Mr Curse holds court on the dance floor, switching between sinister spoken word and tormented screams while the divine “Gatherer of the Pure” rises and then rattles around us.
A mesmerising cocktail of atmospheric black metal, avant-garde prog-rock and antiquated folk; the music may be decadent but it’s no sheer folly. On the second (and final) track, “God”, a hazy panorama of synth floats around melancholic violin before being overwhelmed by restless, emotive black metal. This is vintage vehemence, all the way from the year 1890. Swirling and psychedelic, you can only don your waistcoat and enjoy the view.
But at 10pm, the carousel grinds to a halt. The watershed brings to end two short-but-excellent sets, banishing a couple of the UK’s finest black metal bands and heralding the arrival of a more modern club crowd. Trading warpaint, top-hats and breeches for eyeliner, baseball caps and girl-jeans. If this is progress, count me out.
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