Droning on and on and on and on

12th of February, 2026

I’m having the write the whole thing from diminishing memory as the notebook I had with me this evening fell out of my back pocket on a Lime bike

The spire of St. Giles’ jutted out of the ground like something awful, trying to puncture rain out of the clouds. A queue of soul-starved acolytes shuffled towards the entrance. I could hear the soft ringing of bells. Once I made it inside did the true nature of that sound make itself known. What sounded like tolling bells only did so once it had struggled through two sets of double doors and collapsed limply on the stone steps. The source was a synth belting out a deep and troublesome drone which oozingly thickened the air of the church.

Ears ringing, I said hello to Tim from Dash the Henge. If it weren’t for his invitation, I most probably would’ve eaten myself into a coma from six packets of instant ramen. This seemed like a more productive use of my evening. Everything was vibrating; the pews, the air molecules, the baseball cap which perpetually crowns Tim’s head.

From the pews I had a clear view of the stage where Gashnois (pron. gash-noise) was committing an audio felony. Projected on a screen behind him was a colourful liquid lightshow that rippled and eddied along to the sounds. The man on the synth was Darren who was really putting his instrument through its paces, twisting dials like an executioner increasing the voltage of an electric chair. A screeching note warbled unsteadily, slowly rising to a blood-curdling pitch. Through degrees and increments the sound mutated, its harshness snowballing into something grand and apocalyptic. The silence after every track was unendurably loud. Presently, Darren was joined on stage by poet Leonor Tinajero; high-priestess in black shades and a leather skirt. In a vengefully commanding voice she delivered a sermon on gory grief over Darren’s synth growling and growing angrily out of control. The audience were then disarmed by a droning note that drilled down their ear canals while Leonor captured them with words of orgy in cadences of power.

This was billed as “an evening of audio-visual intensity”. In between acts my eyes wandered in admiration of St. Giles’ internal dimensions. The hallucinogenic projections floating across the vaulted ceiling. Countless flickering candles next to busts of nameless saints. Jesus nailed to a cross illuminated by a blinding, criminal spotlight.

Saul Adamczewski took to the stage in a leopard print hat and a sleek handlebar over his lip. His Drone Orchestra, an entourage of about a dozen, followed him up there. That characteristically lovely sound of an orchestra tuning their instruments lulled everyone in a false sense of security, for what ensued next was a soundtrack to some unspeakable horror. Two of them groaned deeply into the mic, their throaty drawl harmonising with the rest of this wicked ensemble. While Saul fooled around with a melodica, a violin cried like a throat being cut. The coming of some ancient darkness was announced by blasts from a trombone. The whole ordeal was of a positively perverse persuasion. Confused delight was on everyone’s faces.

As they concluded their dirge and filtered off the stage, lively chatter animated the hall. Is that Lias Saoudi by the stage? I guess him and Saul are no longer fighting (again). The church was filling up in earnest now, all the pews were full and a crowd had formed in the aisle. Many wore overcoats with upturned collars or sunglasses indoors or berets, or mullets or all at once. A slightly more grown-up and well-off audience than what you’ll find down the road at the Old Dispensary.

Next on the line-up were Floating World Pictures who stood hunched over a table with some synths, a drum machine, and some tape recorders. By virtue of the latter, their flavour of ambient-drone had more structure compared to the acts just gone. Every track ventured forth with a simple melody or percussive beat repeating itself on a tape loop. Propelled by this steady heartbeat, the synths reached out into vast and puzzling musical gulfs. I closed my eyes and imagined each track as a signal pulsing through the cosmos, its tune red-shifted by weirdness as space expands around it. What far-flung depths of the universe has this signal travelled through to make its way here?

I had a headache - courtesy of an extremely long day at work - by the time the headliners came on. The Jonny Halifax Invocation were the real deal… but what would I know, I left halfway through their set (sorry!) And before you start passing judgment no one gave you the authority to pass: you try sitting through a set like theirs with your eyeballs on fire. The fact that I had to run with my tail between my legs is a testament to the way they can weaponize decibels.

Brown robes and a black hat gave the keys player the appearance of a priest… an angry one because his instrument wasn’t making a sound. When the keys finally struck ominous chords over the destructive distortion of guitars, I immediately felt that some unspeakable ritual was about to go wrong. Each time their rites reached their peaks, the music sounded deserted; harmonicas wailing like a mirage, bathed in rays of unhinged guitar, and drums crashing down on you like sunstroke. I stared dumbly at the liquid projections behind them, splatters of red and yellow contaminating monochrome patterns while a saxophone made the threatening sound of a wild animal. At various moments I had to convince myself that this was, indeed, not the early onrush of psychosis.

Every now and again they broke out into a straight rock beat where the guitarist and harmonica player with a druidic beard – probably Mr. Halifax himself – sang energetically. These interludes felt practiced and perfected while their nightmarish soundscapes sprang from an evil spontaneity.

I could take no more of this. My temples were throbbing and a grey mist obscured the edge of my vision. Tim was nowhere to be found – probably subsumed into the wall of sound. The music receded behind me and I walked to Oval station with the distinct feeling that I’d made it out by the skin of my teeth.