Sunday nights in Norwich are usually reserved for nursing a lukewarm pint and quietly dreading Monday’s inevitable return, but The Holloway, bless its grimy, brilliant heart, had other plans last night. It’s a proper little bunker of a venue and I’m growing to bloody love this place. Huge thanks to the lads there for sorting me a ticket at the eleventh hour, because missing this would have been a proper tragedy. In a space where the line between the "stage" and the front row is basically non-existent, the energy doesn't just travel; it colonizes.
Peat Boggs (9) kicked things off, and honestly, it was the sonic equivalent of a bucket of ice water to the face. The Norwich locals delivered a set of tight, frantic hardcore that felt like a localized riot. There’s something genuinely unsettling about a singer in a disturbing mask, think nightmare fuel fashioned from basement scraps, getting right in the face of the audience. It was visceral. It was claustrophobic. It was, frankly, the perfect way to burn off the weekend’s cobwebs. I know precious little about their history, but I’ve spent the morning digging through their back catalogue; they’ve got that raw, "teeth-bared" urgency that you just can’t fake.
Then came Rules For Radicals (10) I’d had a quick natter with them before the show, lovely people, based out of Bury St Edmunds and Shannon on the drums had jokingly asked me to be nice in the review. Well, Shannon, that’s an easy ask when you’re that bloody good. They unleashed a vast, shimmering wall of desert-drone that seemed to expand to fill every cubic inch of the room. It was towering. Jay is a bit of a wizard with those strings, isn't he? Watching him wring and wrench these howling, beautiful textures out of his guitar was like watching a mechanic try to fix an engine while it was still on fire. It was a masterclass in atmospheric weight, anchored by Shannon’s relentless, focused pacing. I’ll be hunting them down again soon. No doubt about it.
But then, IAN (10)
I’d previously spent some time with their record Come On Everybody, Let's Do Nothing, and while the album is a belter, the live experience is a different beast entirely. It’s doomy, it's sludgy, and it’s properly angry, but there is a vein of absolute beauty running through it that catches you off guard.
The secret weapon? The cello.
Hannah’s playing is nothing short of stunning, it adds this mournful, wooden heart to the cacophony that elevates the whole set into something transcendent. I overheard a bloke afterwards saying it actually brought him to tears, and honestly, I believe him. It’s rare to find music that is simultaneously this visceral and this fragile. It was a staggering display of emotional honesty wrapped in a shroud of distortion. Properly wonderful stuff.
It was the kind of night that reminds you why we still bother with the underground. No pretension, no distance, just a small room full of people feeling the full, physical force of the noise. A brilliant Sunday, all things considered.
Verdict: A masterclass in local noise and emotional weight. My ears are still ringing, and my soul is all the better for it.
Then came Rules For Radicals (10) I’d had a quick natter with them before the show, lovely people, based out of Bury St Edmunds and Shannon on the drums had jokingly asked me to be nice in the review. Well, Shannon, that’s an easy ask when you’re that bloody good. They unleashed a vast, shimmering wall of desert-drone that seemed to expand to fill every cubic inch of the room. It was towering. Jay is a bit of a wizard with those strings, isn't he? Watching him wring and wrench these howling, beautiful textures out of his guitar was like watching a mechanic try to fix an engine while it was still on fire. It was a masterclass in atmospheric weight, anchored by Shannon’s relentless, focused pacing. I’ll be hunting them down again soon. No doubt about it.
But then, IAN (10)
I’d previously spent some time with their record Come On Everybody, Let's Do Nothing, and while the album is a belter, the live experience is a different beast entirely. It’s doomy, it's sludgy, and it’s properly angry, but there is a vein of absolute beauty running through it that catches you off guard.
The secret weapon? The cello.
Hannah’s playing is nothing short of stunning, it adds this mournful, wooden heart to the cacophony that elevates the whole set into something transcendent. I overheard a bloke afterwards saying it actually brought him to tears, and honestly, I believe him. It’s rare to find music that is simultaneously this visceral and this fragile. It was a staggering display of emotional honesty wrapped in a shroud of distortion. Properly wonderful stuff.
It was the kind of night that reminds you why we still bother with the underground. No pretension, no distance, just a small room full of people feeling the full, physical force of the noise. A brilliant Sunday, all things considered.
Verdict: A masterclass in local noise and emotional weight. My ears are still ringing, and my soul is all the better for it.
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