The big review: ArcTanGent 2025

There’s nothing quite like ArcTanGent. If 2000trees – also booked by promoter extraordinaire James Scarlett – is the UK festival equivalent of a cool kid whose tastes exist at the intersection between alternative, indie and metal, then ATG is their nerdy older brother. It's capable of rocking out with even heavier stuff, but just as likely to send you a playlist of the weirdest shit you’ve ever wrapped your ears around after a caffeine-fuelled 3am deep dive online. It's a place to experience the harshest, most cutting-edge sounds in all of alternative music. But so too is it a place to smash scrumpy with the friendliest weirdos in the world – and to get thumped in a mosh.

Blessed by blazing sunshine over the Mendip Hills, 2025 sees the menu expanded further than ever before. Yes, there’s more prog and post rock, doom and math-metal than you can shake a protractor at. But dip beneath the surface and you’ll find even further-flung oddities like Scottish slowcore legends Arab Strap and honk-tastic American avant-garde oddballs Clown Core.

Curated for hardcore fans by hardcore fans, it’s also unlike other festivals in that even the most unknown experimental acts booked first thing in the morning can count on a crowd, drawn in by the obscurity rather than being put off by it. That enthusiasm is infectious. So with our clashfinder soaked with highlighter, a flagon full of the finest Somerset cider and our battered scientific calculator in hand we dove in to bring you all the highlights from Fernhill Farm…

We all have to get old up to a point. But 100 years old? That's just ridiculous. There’s no hot cocoa or Werther’s Originals from Leeds post-metallers Hundred Year Old Man as they get ATG 2025 rolling properly, though. With songs as heavy as Livyatan and Sleep In Light unleashing a century’s worth of sonic suffering and a smoke machine going into overdrive, there is momentarily the illusion that the already-sweltering Yohkai Tent is actually melting. Ear-battering volume means we might all need hearing aids by the end of the set, too. But that’s nothing compared to the impact on listeners’ souls as wave after wave of slow-moving dread leaves dudes headbanging like they've just escaped the retirement home. No Zimmer frames on show today, but if they keep lobbing around tunes this heavy they’re going to need them. (SL)

Abi Vasquez is wearing a heavily-veiled wedding dress for Underdark’s blistering performance. It’s a strong look, fitting perfectly for a shattering version of Matrimony. And although there are no bloodstains, it’s also evocative all kinds of horror cinema, becoming increasingly bedraggled and sweat-soaked as time wears on. It’s the Nottingham black metallers’ preference for real-world horror rather than dark fantasy that’s most compelling, of course, with nothing this weekend darker or more chilling than Raised For A World That No Longer Exists or Managed Decline II and their haunting vision of an inescapable empty future. (SL)

Even under the shelter of the tent that houses the stage, it’s impossible for Year Of No Light to find shadow away from the setting sun. Literally, at least. Figuratively, the Bordeaux post-metallers take us deep into the void courtesy of the elemental swell of Perséphone (Enna) and (Core). Having been forced to drop from the line-up in 2023, and then making it up with a spine-chilling show in 2024, this is their second year on the bounce battering the pastures of Fernhill Farm. As impressively crushing as they can be, it’s the dynamic ability to find flickers of hope and the fleeting glow of warmth that makes them truly unmissable. Once again, fantastique! (SL)

Beers are flowing freely and the smell of sweet leaf is wafting in the air as Colossal Squid unleash the first really out-there assault of the weekend. Which makes their brand of body-moving post-rock – think We Were Exploding Anyway-era 65daysofstatic – a supremely welcome diversion from the rising tide of miserabilism elsewhere. Effectively a solo project for prodigious producer and drummer Adam Betts (Goldie, Squarepusher), it’s an act that rarely appears onstage other than at this festival these days. But as Adam extends the tentacles of tracks as irresistible as Fewston and A Token Of My Gratitude, everyone busting moves would happily mark their calendars to be pulled down into the depths again. (SL)

“We have a very limited set this evening,” smiles Kalandra’s elfin vocalist Katrine Stenbekk, “so let’s not waste any time.” Perhaps more than any other band on ATG’s stacked bill, the rising Scandinavians suffer from having to squeeze in, with the mesmeric melancholy of I Am and Are You Ready? generally most impactful as part of a sprawling wider set in which listeners can be fully immersed. Leaning into both the folkier and poppier elements of their songwriting on The Waiting Game and Bardaginn, they still manage to wring massive moments. “This is sort of like a Nordic Lana Del Mumford & Sons,” laughs one surprised onlooker. It’s meant with no negative connotations, though, as said listener is just one of the new fans here who salute Kalandra offstage to deafening applause. (SL)

Another of those bands that you only ever seem to stumble across at ATG, British psychedelic rockers Teeth Of The Sea look suitably thrilled to be back. Albums like 2015’s Highly Deadly Black Tarantula and 2023’s Hive have rightly made them cult favourites of the underground, but where on record they can feel coldly electronic and at times even robotic, they are far more pleasingly organic in the live arena. Like a spikier, more eccentric Nine Inch Nails they go down a storm, rocking bodies as if their set is on the other side of midnight. The kind of Teeth that no-one’s sorry about getting caught up in. (SL)

Virtually unknown as they are in the wider world, French psych-rockers SLIFT are greeted as returning kings. With the more experimental members of the crowd already riding a chemical high and the Yohkai Stage’s massive video wall chewing through all manner of trippy imagery, they could probably get away with a sort of freewheeling jam session. We don’t quite get that, but on this last night of tour they do accompany established favourites Ummon, Ilion and Nimh with unreleased newbies Fantaz, A Storm and Day Of Ex, daring listeners to get lost in twisty grooves that they’ve never encountered before. It’s a thrilling ride, piloted by musicians with innate ability to get weird and loose. Signing off with another mind-expanding fresh cut, Secret Mirror, it’s easy to believe you’ve stepped over to the other side. (SL)

“This isn’t even a concert,” gasps one visibly overwhelmed audience member as Wardruna turn ATG into a glorious cathedral of sound. “It’s… something else!”

They’re not wrong. Where, normally, the Main Stage remains closed to allow an easier Wednesday warm-up, the opportunity to book the legendary Nordic folk troupe was too much to pass up. We are rewarded with a transcendental journey through time and space, emotion and possibility.

Covering the video screens to dress the space in textured fabric and deploying the level of light show normally reserved for West End theatre, it is transportative even before the music begins. Medieval costumes and the host of traditional instruments stacked onstage add to the sense that you've stepped into another realm. Then the hypnotic, hallucinatory sounds of Kvitravn, Hertan and Skugge take you there, beating away like the oars of a Viking ship pulling down some unknown shoreline. It is a magnificent exercise in overpowering atmospherics.

“This is about taking something old, something borne out of the very ground we still walk upon, and making something new out of it,” mainman Einar Selvik explains close to the end, his willingness to reveal the real personality and intent behind the production setting them aside from similarly revered contemporaries Heilung. “Singing is medicine, the more you sing together, the more you [heal].” Lighting the fires and beating the drums of funeral song Helvegen, it is genuinely possible to forget that you are watching a professional band to lose yourself in that philosophy.

Having played Reykjavik’s Harpa concert hall, the Blackfeet Nation at Montana’s Glacier National Park and Pompeii’s ancient Anfiteatro Romano already over the last couple of months, this big blue tent just outside Bristol could easily pale in comparison. But as Einar returns one last time to sing us solo into the night with gentle “lullaby” Hibjørnen, it’s undeniable that this is music as old magic, present on another plane. Beyond incredible. (SL)

Feeling a bit droopy after a heavy first night? Codespeaker will wake you up faster than a couple of coffees, five Jägerbombs and a stiff kick in the arse. Second album Scavenger established the Edinburgh post-metallers as the real deal at the end of 2024, a monolithic, monochrome slab of sound that’s both crushingly weighty and nerve-shreddingly tense. This morning’s performance sees those qualities manifested thrillingly in the flesh. Emerging from an ominous drone, the furious Usud and suffocatingly doom-laden Hecatomb trap the early-doors crowd in their gravitational pull. Older favourite Pyrric stacks up more and more overwhelming aura. Then a cataclysmic Rescission forces right through the void, shattered but invigorated on the other side. Lovely. (SL)

Amongst the UK’s most 'you-must-check-out' bands, today’s early set feels like The Grey taking matters into their own hands. Off the back of this year’s awesome new LP KODOK, the Cambridge post-metallers seem emboldened again, with a sound swollen to earthquaking proportions. Oh, and to underline the point, old mucker/Will Haven vocalist Grady Avenell is along for the ride, probably sampling his first pre-noon festival performance in an age. There’s a knowing hardcore already crammed against the front barrier, but seeing the uninitiated wandering in with their morning coffee only to be levelled by the wall of sound is the real pleasure. Proceedings might get cut a little short as it is the opening slot, but the epic CHVRCH remains one of the most powerful songs to emerge from these isles in recent years. (SL)

Pulling double-duty after yesterday’s excellent set with ‘main’ band healthyliving, irresistible vocalist Amaya López-Carromero is back with more haunting alter-ego Maud The Moth. Blending glassy, lof-fi ambience (it looks like one of Amaya’s assistants might be there just to trigger the sounds of birdsong) and strident, wailing vocals it’s the kind of show that would work much better tucked away to be discovered well after dark, by listeners drawn like insects to a flame. Even in the sun, though, it’s a fascinating, individualistic performance. And as Ignis Fatuss – a song about being lost for words in the face of a seemingly hopeless world – sees Amaya climbing up almost astride her keyboard, it’s hard not to be lost in their flutter. (SL)

Roaring on in front of a killer backdrop with a roaring waterfall crashing in parallel to an erupting volcano – a living version of the artwork from 2024’s Burden – Chicago psych-metallers REZN embrace an early afternoon slot on the Main Stage, exploding with the elemental force of songs like Chasm and Waves Of Sand. Where many psych bands steer into druggy trippiness, this is an altogether more forceful approach, building a foundation of seismic riffage before stacking the weirder flourishes on top. And when those flourishes do come, such as blaring saxophone and squalling synths straight from ’80s post-punk, it is always to artfully fill out an already overloaded, always mercurial musical canvas. (SL)

“Sorry it took so fucking long!” yells Horrendous guitarist Matt Knox of the wait to finally get the Philly death metal proggers over here. Five excellent albums in, it’s long overdue. And worth the wait. With Matt's tassled jacket and an impressive collection of Ned Flanders moustaches in the ranks, they look more like Rush than Morbid Angel, and often sound it, too. Technicality and death metal are no strangers, of course, not least from this lot's obvious heroes in Atheist, but there’s something about the looser vibe in their more complex bits that sits them next to Yes and Genesis than is often the case when this stuff gets called prog. A shoutout to Ozzy – as repped on Matt’s Steve Van Zandt-ish bandana – gets a big cheer, as does Ontological Mysterium. Proof that, sometimes, the most horrendous things are well worth being patient for. (NR)

Delivering two sets at ATG, Australian instrumentalists We Lost The Sea seem to be all over the place: out in the campsite, propping up the bar, posing for photos and catching a host of their own favourite bands. Friday’s full-album 10th anniversary playthrough of 2015 masterpiece Departure Songs is a nailed-on classic set, climaxing with the heart-rending, two-part Challenger suite Flight and A Swan Song. It’s Thursday’s Arc show, featuring none of the songs from their best album, that really highlights the depth they’ve got, though. From the shapeshifting avalanche of A Beautiful Collapse to the epic melancholy of Blood Will Have Blood, it’s a copper-seal for their credentials as modern post-rock greats. (SL)

Lowen’s summer rampage continues. Having already conjured strange sorcery at Download, at Bloodstock last weekend, and a host of other European festivals, the Middle Eastern metallers are well-oiled and glowing with confidence as they sweep into a rammed Yohkai tent. Wielding ancient books, daggers and bludgeons, it is telling how even the most outlandish props are unable to draw attention from the otherworldly presence and aeon-defying vocals of Nina Saeidi. Laying iron-clad groundwork, Shem Lucas’ pounding riffs do occasionally give the impression that we’re witnessing an alternate perspective of Bolt Thrower classic The IVth Crusade. Then again, as recent masterpiece Do Not Go To War With The Demons Of Mazandaran proved, Lowen are best experienced on their own terms: a heavy outfit quite unlike any other. (SL)

Celebrating 20 years of 2005 classic Doppelgänger, Mukilteo mathcore icons The Fall Of Troy struggle at times with patchy sound, but the sheer quality of the material sees them through. Blasting on with the high-velocity tangle of I Just Got This Symphony Goin’ and inviting out meth. vocalist Seb Alvarez for second song Act One, Scene One slingshots momentum right from the start. The sheer intricacy of Mouths Like Sidewinder Missiles and Laces Out, Dan! do prove to be almost too much for the sound engineers to keep up with, but with the rapid-fire transitions between Whacko Jacko Steals The Elephant Man’s Bones, Tom Waits and Macaulay McCulkin there’s no pause for breath in which to complain. (SL)

“If anyone has a problem with these backing tracks,” yells Meryl Streek, “just remember to go fuck yourselves.” For the Dublin MC and his drummer, a lot of people can go fuck themselves: landlords, politicians, general pricks. The music industry comes in for a battering, “because 95 per cent of the people in it are fucking dickheads.” But for all the rage, there’s something eminently likeable about him and his rogueish Irish demeanour. The love and appeal for togetherness at the heart of much of their angry rap-rants shines through even at their fightiest. Especially when he gives a shoutout to his late uncle Paddy, a man who spent all day reading rather than working, “who I respected because he played by his own rules.” Much like his nephew, in fact. (NR)

It’s been a while since Pelican last played the UK. Thus, the Yohkai tent is rammed beyond capacity with many left listening outside as the Chicago post-metal icons hit the stage. While these people may not actually be able to see what’s going on, this is a band for whom such things are not always necessary. Their lengthy, twisting riffs are the sort of thing often best enjoyed with one’s eyes closed anyway, and the way their shining, melodic, vast walls of sound build up maintains its power far beyond the tent flaps. Stunning as they are, visible or not, it’s a far too short showing, and it feels like there’s a lot more to give when they come to an end. Regardless, it’s a welcome, delightful sighting of an increasingly rare bird. (NR)

Miriam Margoyles, is that you? No, it’s big-haired guitar loon King Buzzo, leading the Melvins through a typically killer lesson in riffs, groove and Sabbathian swing. He looks like an ex-hippie art teacher in his eye-embroidered smock, while guitarist Dale Crover has gone for a similarly festooned white jumpsuit, coming across like the Bee Gees go LSD. The acid-soaked alchemy in their music remains potent even after four decades, locking in perfectly as they nimbly navigate their way through the corkscrew-ing stoner riffs of A History Of Bad Men and Honey Bucket. Two drummers may be the most inconvenient way to expand a band (think of all the heavy lifting and van space), but seeing them totally in sync adds an extra tight energy, and the duelling fills are the stuff of Bill Ward’s dreams. Still heavy, still buzzing, Melvins remain some of the coolest weirdos on the block. (NR)

“We thought we were going to be playing to, like, two people,” shrugs Matthew Neesam. As they openly admit, clashing with Melvins might be the toughest of breaks for the similarly-minded street grease, but the English experimentalists refuse to take a backwards step. Practically dripping with outsider energy and industrial edge, but inhabiting a stage rammed with everything from synths and sample-boards to a keytar and even a full-size harp, the lumpy mix of concrete punk rock and bumping electro in Spit and Take The Blood From My Body works remarkably well. With a bare bones online presence and just one five-track EP out, they’re a hard band to get dug into, but on today’s evidence all effort will be worthwhile. (SL)

Fucking hell, it’s good to have Kylesa back. It’s hard to work out if the Savannah psych-sludge monarchs are on particularly amazing form today, or if the memories of just how stunning they've always been have faded a little in the nine years since they called time. Either way, their beyond-expectations showing quickly makes a bid as one of the bands of the weekend. Emerging to Sabbath’s Sweet Leaf, Laura Pleasants looks cooler than a frozen cucumber as she pulls out the riffs to Tired Climb – half bulldozing force, half slinking liquid fuzz – and the band quickly hit fifth gear and stay there. There’s crowdsurfers galore to Nature’s Predators and Said And Done, two masterclasses in jaw-dropping groove, while the shout-along Don’t Look Back, with its enormous melodic chorus, is the heaviest song Weezer never wrote. It almost feels too little to have them on this dinnertime slot. Then again, this understatement only adds to the feeling that you’re seeing something very special. Come back again, Kylesa. And again. And again and again. (NR)

If Leprous had been named as headliners, few here would have batted an eyelid. Boasting stunning video production, impressively choreographed stagecraft and imposing flame stacks between the drum riser and the rest of the band, they look more than ready. And that’s before you even get to the songs. From the wibbly-wobbly tech metal of Silently Walking Alone to the proggy majesty of From The Flame, Slave and R&B-inflected highlight Atonement, this is heavy music reaching for the stars. “They’re like Sleep Token without the gimmicks,” reckons an astute onlooker. With vocalist Einar Solberg somehow still improving, it’ll be interesting to see if their star can rise even half as far. On today’s evidence, they deserve to go all the way. (SL)

“This is a song about shaggin’!” grins Aidan Moffat as Arab Strap slip into a probing Compersion Pt. 1 midway through their Yokai Stage headline set. The great, gruff Scots might not have the same technicality or outlandish experimentality of some of this bill, but they have a back-catalogue loaded with songs to get under your skin. Plus, where at times this festival can feel a little sexless, they undeniably fuck. From the metallic discordance of Allatonceness, to the pulsating Bliss and Sociometer Blues’ irresistibly jangling indie, cuts from last year’s I'm Totally Fine With It, Don't Give a Fuck Anymore might be more preoccupied with distance in the post-pandemic internet age. But from the steel-plated Mogwai influence of Fucking Little Bastards to throbbing deep cut Girls Of Summer and modern classic The Turning of Our Bones, they deliver hot-blooded intimacy on a level that few bands could hope to match. Leaving out massive fan favourites The Shy Retirer and The First Big Weekend is a bold call, yet the climactic Turn Off The Light – a reference to the infamous conspiracy theory publication – is probably a better match for ATG anyway. Scintillating. (SL)

With their toga-y robes, frontman Sam Frank's Indiana Jones And The Temple Of Doom horns, and big moustaches all round, Battlesnake give off a first impression that they're incredibly daft and that they’re taking the piss. This lasts for about 30 seconds of their fired-up, oddly NWOBHM-ish punk, when the Australian centurions become the greatest band in the world for half an hour. Even if guitarist Daniel Willington's baseball cap is completely at odds with the rest of the getup. Their riffs charge like giddy bulls, causing absolute pandemonium, particularly when one lad sets off a confetti bomb in the pit. Oddly, it feels entirely appropriate. Leaping into the crowd, Sam is basically an Aussie Iggy Pop, and it’s not long before his bandmates are in the thick of it as well, riffing away on top of the crowd. You feel sorry for everyone watching Godpseed over on the Main Stage for missing out on such a joyous riot, as Battlesnake seal themselves yet another victory in a summer full of them. And, like, it is daft, but it’s fucking brilliant. Snakes alive! (NR)

Challenged to select potential headliners for any speculative ArcTanGent line-up, those in the know would surely namecheck Godspeed You! Black Emperor within their first five picks. Tonight is proof of why. While it’s strange to think of the Montreal post-rock overlords as any kind of safe pair of hands, their ability to follow Wardruna’s awesome Wednesday showing without being totally upstaged is testament not just to the density and complexity of songs as unruly as Hope Drone and BABYS IN A THUNDERCLOUD, but also their raw emotional resonance in the live setting. With a stage packed full of players under deep red light and hypnotic, subtly unsettling video reels they take you easily to a world of nightmares and dreamscapes.

Heavier and darker than Explosions In The Sky or Sigur Rós, more imaginative than Sunn O))), and weirder and more unapologetically dissonant than Mogwai, it is perhaps their greatest strength that GY!BE have carved out an odd, awkward niche and only burrowed deeper and deeper down their own rabbithole. No compromise, nothing watered down. Sure, RAINDROPS CAST IN LEAD and PALE SPECTATOR TAKES PHOTOGRAPHS / GREY RUBBLE – GREEN SHOOTS sit awkwardly with the peripheral noise and chaos of a festival atmosphere, but the climactic BBF3 eventually overwhelms everyone jammed in under the canvas. Godspeed, indeed! (SL)

Irish instrumental rockers Overhead, The Albatross are a classic ArcTanGent success story. Emerging with minimal mainstream hype for the 11am slot, they find the Main Stage packed thanks to a combination of word of mouth and enthusiasm from the organisers themselves. Living up to it spectacularly, the Dublin boys draw us into the depths of Your Last Breath and At Sea, with a striking video production balancing extra veins of mystery and nostalgia. Bracing mid-set highlight I’ve Got A Few Years Left is the undeniable highlight, though: a reminder to live for the moment and hold close those you care for. Extra kudos for the on-screen tribute to recently deceased Brian Fitzpatrick, good friend of the festival and one of the UK music community’s great unsung heroes. (SL)

“For the last fucking time: we’re Ithaca.” As send-offs go, they couldn’t have asked for a better place than ArcTanGent. It’s an emotional one even as they arrive to Robbie Williams’ Angels (itself getting a huge sing-along led by Djamila Azzouz), and from there the wake from one of the finest heavy British bands of recent times is a rollercoaster of screamed joy, righteous anger, sadness and fondness.

The cold-hearted ‘Wash your blood down the sink ’cause we don’t keep souvenirs’ shout from In The Way is particularly noisy today, just as the mayhem that greets Camera Eats First feels especially intense. Djamila herself seems to be squeezing every last moment out of this, extra violent in her dancing. “If any of you have a big vape, blow on it now, bitch,” she purrs as the stage fills with smoke, adding an extra feeling of size to an already special occasion, having already brought out their mates Ed Gibbs from Devil Sold His Soul and Pupil Slicer’s Kate Davies to roar along their salutes. It’s all about one band, though. Guitarist Sam Chetan-Welsh gives a shoutout as the end draws near, reminding us to “reject nihilism” and that “there is always hope”. But as it all finishes one final time and Djamila waves a tearful goodbye, thinking straight like that has to go on the back burner as the full-stop of such a great band hits you. Farewell, Ithaca. We still fear you. (NR)

Alternately slinky, sinister and strident, Giant Walker turn out not to be purveyors of the brand of hazy, oversized stoner rock their name would suggest. There is plenty of fuzz about Make Me and the title-track from last year’s excellent Silhouettes album, yes, but there are proggy flourishes and even a few pop-rock hooks here and there to ensure they never get too bogged down. Vocalist Steff Fish – exuding star power in a superb jumpsuit – is both kaleidoscopic focal point and driving force: a swirl of talent and charisma who forces you to believe that the rising Geordies are set for Big Things indeed. (SL)

Car Bomb have been quiet for the past few years, but the New York mathcore maniacs issue a spectacular warning shot with new EP Tiles Whispers Dreams just in advance of this tour. There's a couple of tracks from that today – the riotous Blindsides and suffocating Paroxysm – but they’re just the tip of a steel-plated iceberg with jet thrusters attached. Festival favourites already, they live up to their Main Stage billing with detonative aplomb. "I’m wearing a button down shirt, because you dress for the job you want,” frontman Michael Dafferner injects a moment of levity. “But the bottom button is undone because no-one tells me what to do when it comes to style!” As if the disgustingly gnarly sounds of Dissect Yourself and Secrets Within weren’t proof enough that these lads operate solely on their own terms. (SL)

It doesn’t start as the easiest of days for Emma Ruth Rundle. Apparently under the weather, she’s also got to contend with noise bleeding from neighbouring tents, as well as idiots loudly talking during the quiet bits (so, all of them). But this doesn’t stop her creating something truly vast and magical – not to mention curiously heavy – using just her voice and an acoustic guitar. The images of rain, rivers and the tides behind her create feelings of desolation, while at the same time she engenders an intimacy with the raw, looseness of the performance, as she vibes and slithers her way through the frail Living With The Black Dog and Blooms Of Oblivion. Between these hymns from the very depths of the soul, there's a surprising amount of levity, responding to one call out from the crowd with, "I'm not sure what you just said, but I'll take it as encouragement," before introducing "uplifting number", the brooding Citadel. "I could just take the next 20 minutes to tell you grandma stories," she smiles at one point, before strumming the theme from Jaws, "the sound of a grandma story approaching." Offering the decision of the final song from the crowd, she exits on a gorgeous Marked For Death, and leaves ATG feeling purged and fresh from a go through a beautiful, cathartic emotional wringer. Absolutely peerless, even in her most bare-bones form. (NR)

EYES don’t give a fuck what kind of festival this is. Last seen at sister outing 2000trees, the Copenhagen punks are back in the English southwest to cause more disruption than a British railway management exec. One of the most unstoppably intense bands on the bill, the onslaught of excellent riffs and barked vocals hammering through Beelzebub, The Hypocrite, Save Face On A Regular Basis and Underperformer are loud enough to bleed right into the back of Emma Ruth Rundle’s set. Exactly the sort of shake-up you need on a hot Friday after two days of being mentally challenged and emotionally exhausted. EYES are blinking brilliant. (SL)

Now this is one hell of an afternoon tea break. First cropping up at the second edition of ArcTanGent back in 2014 and establishing themselves as regular visitors since then, Alpha Male Tea Party are one of those bands who have grown in tandem with the festival itself. Not that they’re close to cracking the mainstream anytime soon. The Liverpudlian crew’s brand of heavy/soft math rock actually isn’t quite as off the wall as song titles like Battle Crab, Have You Ever Seen Milk and the brilliant You Eat Houmous, Of Course You Listen To Genesis would suggest, but there is wry humour and outside-the-box thinking in spades. Basically, it’s sort of like a comforting warm drink with a splash of milk, two sugars and a live octopus chucked in for good measure. (SL)

“Is that weird enough?” enquires Coilguns singer Jona Nido. Certainly, the twisted punk coming out of the quartet from “rich, racist Switzerland” isn’t the most straightforward thing you’ll ever hear, but they also pull you in with ease, a mix of explosive, Refused-ish music and likeable personality. “We worked out that every minute we spend onstage here, we spent 15 in the van,” Jona beams. They’re making it count. Songs like Venetian Blinds and the sidewinding Bunker Vaults are aptly enough like a caged animal being let out, although the ever-present hooks mean it’s not so hard to take them up on their invitation to “sweat out all the fascism that is still inside of us”. As things reach a climax with a furious closing run through of We Missed The Parade, Jona climbs the tentpole, a mix of righteous anger and joyous togetherness as he hurls himself into the crowd. Deadly. (NR)

Despite being nowhere near the top of the bill, screamo legends envy are still one of the most talked-about bands of the weekend. Formed all the way back in 1992, the Tokyo crew don’t seem to have lost a step, with the dense textures, operatic melodrama and sometimes almost hip hop-inflected vocal rhythms of Piecemeal, Imagination & Creation and Footsteps In The Distance inspiring pumped fists and damp eyes in equal measure. Even after all these years, it’s still mostly impossible for Western audiences to tell exactly which demons vocalist Tetsuya Fukagawa is facing up to without a crash course in Japanese but that just makes it spine-tingling proof of the universal languages of heartbreak and catharsis. (SL)

Future Of The Left frontman Andy ‘Falco’ Falkous looks like he’d do this shit for free. Maybe he is, which could be why both FOTL and his other band mclusky grace both 2000trees and ATG this year. Or maybe it’s that The Lord Hates A Coward, Small Bones Small Bodies and You Need Satan More Than He Needs You are just so much fun. As the band name would suggest, there is some political purpose at the heart of it all. Aside from shutting one overenthusiastic fan down with the exceptional quip, “I’d ask you to cheer harder if it would make Margaret Thatcher any more dead,” though, Falco doesn’t get too bogged down in the mess the world is in, preferring to let Robocop 4 – Fuck Off Robocop and How To Spot A Record Company do the talking for themselves. Pure class. (SL)

Delving are the brainchild of Nick DiSalvo from Massachusetts prog-stoners Elder doing noodly instrumental prog-stoner with added synths. Such pedigree means skills with a riff are baked into their DNA already, but the lack of vocals forces you to look even closer and realise just how neat some of this stuff is. Like Kylesa, the ability to take a couple of simple ideas and contort them into a thousand different things is a magic only the properly talented can weave, not to mention the fact that Nick is playing guitar and fiddling with an arpeggiator at the same time, without ever missing a moment on either. There’s the odd moment where it sounds like a 1970s Open University chemistry video, but for a vibe-out, they’re exactly what ArcTanGent’s stages are here for, and at this time of day, their blissful, Floyd-ian jams hit the spot perfectly. Worth delving into. (NR)

There’s a lot of weird stuff at ArcTanGent. Only Green Lung, however, are truly wyrd. Their “olde English, black magic, goat-bothering heavy fucking metal” is actually relatively conventional amid some of the madness on offer, but this just allows the London doom-rockers to stand even taller than usual. A brass trio emerges to deliver a parped intro ahead of opener Woodland Rites, before it drops into its big, Deep Purple-y riffs and Tom Templar’s tales of ‘Dancing naked in the night’. As with their incredible show at the O2 Kentish Town Forum in London earlier this year, big stages suit them very well, with classic metal stances a-go-go and Tom leading proceedings like a diabolic David Lee Roth.

“We don’t have any polyrhythms, time signature changes or blastbeats,” he wryly apologises, “but we do have riffs, solos, choruses and well-researched songs about old English folklore.” All of which sound particularly verdant, especially Scott Black’s guitar hero shredding, like an old minstrel handed a Gibson SG and a big amp. As ever, Maxine (Witch Queen) and Mountain Throne are enormous, but it’s the quiet folk of Song Of The Stones that resonate among the fields and hills, particularly if you passed nearby(ish) Stonehenge on the A303 here. A ‘Hail Satan’ cheer tees up the sinful Let The Devil In, while the way One For Sorrow lifts from slow, doomy, poetic description of depression into a pit-tastic breakdown in the middle only becomes more of a mighty flex each time they play it. In this heathen land, there are few doing it better. (NR)

Methamphetamine is nasty, lab-made synthetic stimulant, highly addictive, the abuse of which tends to leave users missing at least few of their teeth. It’s got plenty in common with namesake meth., then. Straddling the meeting point between experimental rock, hardcore and extreme metal, the Chicago crew threaten to blot out the sun with visions of hell like Cruelty, Give In and Shame. Arguably the most oppressive atmosphere of the whole weekend, it inspires chaos in some pockets of the crowd and sheer terror in others, particularly when frontman Seb Alvarez gets in their faces. Not exactly a pleasant trip, but one this broken audience would happily take again. (SL)

Between The Buried And Me must be committed workaholics. Despite dubbing this overseas run the ‘European Sumer Holiday 2025’, the North Carolinan prog-metalcore icons have signed up for two shows during their time at ATG. Tomorrow’s Main Stage hits set will be a whistle-stop tour to remind of their chaotic flair and how they’ve expanded from unhinged upstarts into the far statelier, bigger-sounding band we know in 2025. Today, however, sees a run-through of 2007’s Colors on the more intimate Yohkai Stage. Flipping on dimes from the expansive Foam Born (A) The Backtrack to the off-the-chain savagery of (B) The Decade Of Statues, and on into the spiralling tech-metal of Informal Gluttony, it’s less an exercise in tonal consistency than perfect balance. By the time a gorgeous Viridian collapses into the massive, metamorphosing sprawl of White Walls it’s impossible to forget that you're consuming a snapshot of greatness. (SL)

ATG big boss James Scarlett will later say during the live recording of his and Damnation promoter Gav McInally’s 2 Promoters, 1 Pod that the idea to book Mew felt like something of an outlier for the festival. Quite why, we’re not sure, because the legendary Danish post-rock pioneers feel entirely at home. Marking their 30th anniversary – and, confusingly, in the midst of a run of ‘farewell’ gigs that are actually just the last hurrah for retiring frontman Jonas Bjerre – there’s a feeling of celebration as they fill the tent with waves of delicate chorus pedalled notes and ethereal melody. The dreamy music is perfectly matched by the gentle, trippy visuals on the giant screen behind them. For some, even this matching isn’t necessary, with plenty of folk lying on the ground, vibing out with their eyes closed to the blissful washes of sound. So, farewell, Mew, but hopefully not really. Especially as you’ve made yourselves so welcome here. (NR)

VOWER just keep getting better. Impossible as it feels to believe that the Black Peaks/Palm Reader/Toska supergroup only really came into existence 13 months ago, their evolution has also been rapid and emphatic. Picking up and progressing from where they left off at Download and two sets at 2000trees, ArcTanGent is their best show yet. The heaviness and layer after layer of sonic texture built into In The Wake Of Failure, False Rituals and Moth Becomes The Flame find their perfect arena, and a crowd who are ravenous for more. If they can stumble on a song to really stick in fans’ minds, these local heroes’ potential is stratospheric. (SL)

Frontierer are like getting sucked into a migraine, but much more fun. They are insane. Obnoxiously loud and with everything sounding as gnarly as it’s possible to get, first impressions are of Super Hans’ New Years Eve party in Peep Show. Oh, and there’s a relentless light show that will turn your brain inside-out. Which, after a day malfunctioning in the sun, is about the level a lot of people are on right now. It’s industrial from the future, with more techno-y bits and less regard for the human ear. The beats are as subtle as gunfire, while the ultra-processed guitars are like razorwire being sent down an old modem. Again, it is fantastic. Some manage only five minutes before watching from a safer distance outside, or seeking something more mellow, like a drill. For everyone else, it’s a case of chucking yourself in and allowing them to throw you around like a ragdoll in a washing machine. The result is an odd, exhilarating, punishing, joyful catharsis, and a feeling your ears have just been violated by the most intense and exciting noise you’ve never experienced before. (NR)

Along with Rolo Tomassi and Future Of The Left, Leicester post-rockers Maybeshewill are veterans of ATG. Where better to celebrate their 20th anniversary after all – with an accompanying string-section – than here? A far more evolved proposition than they were back then, with Refuturing and Zarah from 2021’s No Feeling Is Final and even In Amber from 2014’s Fair Youth marking evolutionary leaps, things have changed. It’s the old stuff that hits the hardest today, though, with I’m In Awe, Amadeus and Last Time This Year both played for the first time in over a decade, while To The Skies From A Hillside, sounding bolder than ever before, is still their finest hour. Here’s hoping the deafening applause as they leave the stage can be fuel for another creative burst further down the line. (SL)

Those searching for more beats and nightmare disco after Frontierer’s assault are well served as U.S. duo GosT bust onto the PX3 Stage to continue the dangerous party. Ironically, in their live form the masked man and his Sideshow Bob-haired bassist are a far more agreeable, danceable proposition than much of their abrasive recorded work. There’s a security guard bopping away as their sleazy synthwave gets up to thrusting speed, and it’s almost impossible to stop your arse moving to their techno-tinged riot. Their aggressive moments act as more of a build, with stabs of noise working things up to boiling point before dropping into something that would fill Hell’s dancefloor, like NIN in the very wrongest part of town. Scarily good. (NR)

Karnivool feel like an odd choice to headline a festival the size of ATG in 2025. They’re worshipped by a loyal fanbase, of course, but the Australian prog heroes have never really captivated casual fans. They’ve not released an album in well over a decade, either, with only standalone singles All It Takes and Drone bridging the gap since 2013’s Asymmetry. Both of those are on the setlist this evening, but it’s the pristine performance of the classics that might just win over the doubters and the curious. Goliath is still a bludgeoning giant. Simple Boy bridges the worlds of serrated tech metal and smoother-edged prog. Deadman confirms they’re capable of painting on the grandest canvas imaginable, while Roquefort proves they’re capable of close-quarters down and dirty, too. Ian Kenny is in fine voice even after all these years, and the rest of the band are pin sharp. New Day is also as fine a mainstream rock track as any you’ll hear all festival. But it’s a good show rather than a truly great one, with another committed long-form release needed to surge their momentum back to what it once was. Because there’s an innate need to see even your favourite progressive rockers actually progress. (SL)

“They asked us to do a minute’s silence for Ozzy,” grins Mike Vennart. “Well, here’s an hour of it.” Weird as it is watching the Oceansize/Biffy Clyro guitarist and his excellent Ozzy-era Black Sabbath tribute Walpurgis via headphones, silent disco style, it does add to the sense of occasion. And while his frustration at not having his guitar blasting out of a wall of amps becomes an unexpected comedy bit between songs, he’s got every single one of Tony Iommi’s riffs and solos perfectly down, even the tone. They’re also helped by realising the rhythm section are lead instruments themselves, actually managing to get the swing that so many who try this stuff miss, particularly in the jam section of almighty opener War Pigs. “Is everyone high?” asks Mike (answer: not quite everyone, but almost). The party continues with Snowblind, Sweet Leaf, Fairies Wear Boots, a blistering Symptom Of The Universe, Supernaut, and loads more banter (“This is the first time I’ve tuned my own guitar in fucking years. That’s how much of an arsehole I am…”), before ending on “best song ever written” Sabbath Bloody Sabbath. An odd setup, but entirely brilliant. “This is better than any fucking Oceansize reunion would ever be,” goads Mike. For once, that’s actually true. (NR)

During Saturday morning’s jam-packed 2 Promoters, 1 Pod live special with James Scarlett and Gavin McInally, viewers looking closely are fascinated by the selection of CRT monitors full of white noise and old-school tape-reels being assembled at the back of the stage. Those who stick around after are treated to one of the sets of the weekend courtesy of Indifferent Engine. The props are surplus to requirements as the gang deliver bleeding-edge post-hardcore in the vein of classic At The Drive In from this summer’s debut LP Speculative Fiction. Special mention to vocalist Adam Paul, whose wildly impassioned performance is at times legitimately agonising to watch. Goosebumps raised. (SL)

“Hi, we’re Sugar Horse, the anti-podcast band.” Having noisily barged their way into 2 Promoters, 1 Pod over on the Bixler Stage half an hour ago with a deafening soundcheck, there’s no apologies necessary as the Bristol prog-sludgers lumber through Office Work Simulator (and anyway, it already happened, so it would be bolting the stable door after the Sugar Horse had bolted…). At coffee time in the morning on the final day of a festival, something as heavy as what the ’Horse serve up shouldn’t feel as good as it does, but the way they add brain and melody to the lowest, most bass heavy riffs defies any hangover or exhaustion to reel you in with ease. Actually, there’s even some moments that sound quite pretty. All of which are absolutely crushed by the complementing drops of doom, and the final collapse into looping feedback. Sweet. (NR)

Brilliant ambassadors for the UK metal underground, Wren are best experienced in the darkest, grottiest basement you can find. Today is not that. This year’s third album Black Rain Falls benchmarked a brand of sickening sludge metal built of suffocating atmospherics and sheer hopelessness that can’t help but be diluted somewhat by the sunshine spilling in the sides of the tent. With bangovers maxed-out after three days of drinking and self-destruction, most of those watching along seem unwilling to fully hand themselves over, happy to just perch on the edge of their pit of despair. Even at the height of summer, though, you can still feel their inky tendrils reaching out wrap round your heart and squeeze. (SL)

Swamp Coffin? Give it a throat sweet, then. A crap joke, but oddly in keeping with half the vibe the ultra-heavy Rotherham riffsters bring with them. For a band who make music from such a place of relentless misery and pain as they do, they also come armed with a surprising amount of bants. “I wanna see the world’s slowest wall of death,” grins Jon Rhodes, before two sides of the tent stomp towards one another like rows of zombies. He also calls for as many crowdsurfers as possible, before insisting the audience give him the finger while he teaches them the ‘No-one’s gonna fucking save you’ refrain from As Cold As Blood Fun, but their music is no laughing matter – death-heavy sludge with a street-level hardcore touch, and a tone straight from the depths of a graveyard. The between-song levity actually makes things all the more crushing when they kick in, and the devastating, slo-mo breakdowns are the stuff nightmares are made of. Just imagine if they were in a bad mood, though… (NR)

“Well that's very interesting,” The Callous Daoboys open their set with infamous meme of a nice old man casually declaring his murderous intent. “I'm going to have to come over to your house and kill you, no two ways about it.” Last time the Atlanta maniacs were at ArcTanGent, they almost started a riot over in the Bixler tent. This afternoon, they're next door on the Main Stage for a more stately and substantially more chilled out showing. The first-ever on tour play of (whisper it) poppy fresh cut Lemon feels emblematic of this more deliberate new approach. There are still plenty of schizoid flourishes in Two-Headed Trout and Pushing The Pink Envelope, but despite the classic anime and WWE clips flashing across the video screens, more effort seems to be expended on large-scale stagecraft and textural experimentation than outright chaos. When they do boil over into violence, it's all the more jarring and explosive for it. “Make an enemy, you nerds!” goads frontman Carson Pace as What Is Delicious? Who Swarms? kicks in. “If somebody looks scared, give them a reason to be,” one-ups guitarist Daniel Hodson. Star Baby and The Demon Of Unreality Limping Like A Dog would be a fine closing salvo, but they go right over the top with a wild cover of Enter Shikari’s Sorry, You’re Not A Winner featuring Hidden Mothers’ Liam Knowles on guest vocals. A whole different level of batshit brilliance from one of heavy music's most exciting bands. (SL)

Shouldn’t Burner be more powerful than this? Yep, the PA doesn’t seem to be on, leaving the London metalcore bruisers kicking off at volume one and having to have another go. Rather than spelling disaster, it actually winds things up even more, so that when they come blasting out second time around a minute later, it hits double hard. “Faster!” comes the yell from the crowd. “Not possible,” replies singer Harry Nott. Their furious din isn’t all done at top speed – they do a nice line in chonk as well – but the bits that are probably need a fire extinguisher nearby. “Do y’all like blastbeats?” Duh. “Check this out.” And then there’s more speed. It stirs up a pit of exhausted bodies, as well as a great deal of dust, and even with a gremlin threatening to trip them up at the first step, Burner are on fire. (NR)

Finishing their set, The Callous Daoboys’ Carson Pace compels the current generation of unhinged musical maniacs to make sure they stick around to catch Sleepytime Gorilla Museum, who very much paved the way. Sleepytime don’t look much like the Daoboys, mind, sporting outlandish outfits that would look more at home in an old-school art installation than on this cutting-edge stage. They don’t really sound anything like them, either, with everything from glockenspiels and melodicas to violins and Tibetan bells contributing to something that’s closer to a Björk performance on bad acid. In their no-rules melding of genre and willingness to indulge in expressive nonsense, the Californian legends really did lay the groundwork for many ATG favourites. And in outrageously weird final song The Donkey-Headed Adversary Of Humanity Opens The Discussion – “An apocalyptic comedy about giving it all back to the animals” – they drop a banger that few here will ever forget. (SL)

Edinburgh’s DVNE (that’s ‘Dune’) have somehow become even more vast and intricate in their take on doom and post-metal. Which is quite something when you consider that they’re so named after Frank Herbert’s mammoth sci-fi masterpiece of the same name and mainlined its influence early on like so much spice melange. Today, they take a packed Yohkai tent on a voyage across dimensions, powered by massive riffs, occasional odd rhythms and futuristic synth work. Sort of like Mastodon in a physics department. There’s a brilliant otherworldliness to their heaviness, particularly when they zone in on a musical phrase and take it to its limit, adding it to the massive musical vista they create. It’s no barren wasteland, absolutely teeming with neat ideas and cool twists and turns. Mostly, though, it’s just huge, in every respect. My desert. My ArcTangent. My DVNE. (NR)

“Welcome to Hell,” declares Unprocessed’s intro tape. If it is Hell, it’s its most upbeat and energised neighbourhood, as the German tech-nu-metallers arrive and demand immediately that everyone “Bounce! Bounce! Bounce!” At times, they’re a tightly-focussed knot of complex, djent-y chugs. At others, they roll out a chorus from the Bring Me The Horizon school of big melody. And at one point, they go into full slap-bass-and-Steve-Vai-noodling territory. Which all ties together nicely enough, but it’s in their endearing enthusiasm that they charm today. “I feel like you guys want more heavy shit, is that true?” smiles frontman Manuel Gardner Fernandes before delivering something actually relatively middle-weight. At a festival like ATG, the ‘get down on the ground and jump up’ thing is a gamble (“Not with these knees,” hoots one non-participant, “plus, everyone here’s over 30…”) but one that surprisingly pays off. (NR)

The problem with ATG’s no-holds-barred approach to booking is that after a long weekend of the most bonkers acts imaginable, a band as straightforwardly excellent as Inter Arma just can’t quite grab the attention. Less sludgy than they are at times, and with more of a focus on intricate guitar work, New Heaven, Violent Seizures and Concrete Cliffs really are excellent, all thunderous drums, churning riffs and high-tension atmospherics. But even as they segue from defiantly airy highlight The Long Road Home via a snatch of Van Halen’s Hot For Teacher into full-colour closer An Archer In The Emptiness, the Virginian heavyweights struggle not to get lost in the mix. (SL)

As a chorus of Happy Birthday swells through the crowd, it’s hard to believe that Rolo Tomassi are celebrating two decades already. It feels like five minutes since K! first encountered them in a Grimsby pub in 2005 – on what was quite literally a school night for the then-teenaged band. There’s probably a similar memory for many in the rammed tent, wondering not just where the times goes, but also marvelling at what Sheffield’s most angular have done with it, to end up as one of the most beloved, anticipated and respected acts here.

Early stuff like I Love Turbulence still sounds gleefully absurd in its refusal at points to bother with normal rhythms, and you yet again marvel that something so advanced and truly unique was the work of ones so young. Later stuff, meanwhile, like the gorgeous Crystal Cascades, backed by a string quartet, are a stunning reminder of their growth into a band who can touch the stars when the mood takes. The ability of perma-dancing Eva Spence to switch between her feral scream and graceful cleans in what feels like the same breath is a wonder, as is their ability to take blasts of broken-glass noise and make them sound as towering and artful as they do during The Hollow Hour.

For two decades, Rolo Tomassi have only ever done what they want, they’ve never sold out, they never fell on their arse trying to impress people. As much as the passing of time, it’s this that’s truly worth celebrating. Happy birthday. Never change. (NR)

Is Corny Hammer the jolliest man in doom? Yes. Putting the ‘fun’ into Ahab’s ‘Nautik Funeral Doom’, the loveable drummer doesn’t stop grinning and mugging for the crowd the whole time the German quartet are onstage, churning up the Bixler Stage with wave after wave of hanging heaviness. He’s not wrong, though – there’s an oddly mighty, party atmosphere to proceedings, partly down to being one of the best doom bands of their age and UK sightings coming about as often as those of their seafaring namesake’s white whale. But it’s also just glorious how the non-tempos and mournful guitar melodies conjure up the desolate, lonely sea, and Daniel Droste’s growls take you to the depths of the briny deep. When it kicks in, it’s a choppy storm that throws you about like Moby Dick himself is dragging the wall of guitar along, causing an outbreak of barrier-shaking headbanging down the front as the speed finally hits full-sail toward the end. Absolutely killer. No wonder yer man can’t stop grinning. (NR)

clown core are described as a ‘Marmite band’ by those in the know in the lead up to their long-awaited Main Stage slot – something unusual that you’ll either love or hate. We’d venture that they’re more like some unspeakably perverse sex act, utterly offputting to those without unexplainable outsider appetites, loudly heralded by the oddest extroverts you know and actually indulged by far more people than would care to admit. Part grindcore, part jazz, part absurd electronica, the unnamed masked duo make music mostly with a drumkit, a saxophone and all manner of honking samples. ‘Songs’ like Brendan Fraser and Pizza Party vary wildly from avant-garde anti-music to genuine danceability. Their video backdrop varies from slapstick nonsense to graphic AI porn, sending hand-wringing busybodies and a few parents who seem to have missed the content warning berserk. It all ends abruptly with a cheeky message flashing on the big screen: ‘Thank you for your money. Please leave.’ Is it big or clever? Probably not. But it certainly couldn’t be called boring. (SL)

After Future Of The Left’s delicious showing yesterday, mainman Falco is back for his second set of the weekend with original outfit mclusky. “This song was designed for ArcTanGent,” he teases of You Should Be Ashamed Seamus. “It's slow so it'll make you think about mortality. And it's about people you hate, so it'll make you think about mortality.” Between wrenching out riffs and joking with fans (“I know this stage is named after a member of The Mars Volta, but if you’re going to clap along, you need to do it in time!”) mclusky now feels even more like an extension of Falco’s loud-and-proud attitude than FOTL. But with songs as good as People Persona and To Hell With Good Intentions, it’s a cult of personality worth buying into. (SL)

Blasting on at the very end of a long, hot four days, the crowd has visibly thinned by the time TesseracT take the stage. Those who stick around are rewarded richly, however. Packing the biggest production of the weekend, the plain old video screen is switched up to look like a rip in the side of some ship looking into deep space, and half the people onstage are dressed like they’ve stepped off the set of a sci-fi movie.

They’ve got the music to match, as well. The djent-infused prog of Concealing Fate, Part 1: Acceptance, The Grey and Natural Disaster are as slickly engineered as spacecraft and twice as loud, while King and Tourniquet crank the more human emotion. As a surging Concealing Fate, Part 2: Deception bleeds out into the massive Juno, the sense of history and practiced professionalism of over two decades building to this point is up there to behold. The epic encore War Of Being, with its extra shades of throat-ripping hardcore, adds a nice dollop of something visceral to the techy proceedings. And when Daniel Tompkin announces TesseracT will have new music by the time they return, there’s a palpable frisson of excitement and curiosity: real belief that this band still have miles to go and whole galaxies of sonic possibility to explore before it’s all said and done.

The same could be said for ArcTanGent itself. During the aforementioned 2P1P live podcast earlier in the weekend, James Scarlett let slip that the further into uncharted territory his bookings go, the more enthusiastic the reception tends to get. Having already ransacked every esoteric corner of the musical landscape, we’re not sure where exactly they might turn next. Wherever it is, it'll add up to something brilliant once again. (SL)

Read this next:

• Unprocessed: “We don’t want it to be a nerdy proggy show where you just sit and watch. It’s rock’n’roll!”
• Green Lung: The ultimate guide to their heathen universe
• Lowen: “I want to explore the edges of discomfort in what we do”