The crowd at Howler is sparse as Pselodux – a one-man box of tricks with more equipment than NASA – takes the stage. He drags you through a progressive space-travelling black hole, leaving your tympanic membrane rattling. Next the pedal proficient, riff-bashing Yis perform the horrendously catchy I Wanna Go Home, which makes the early arrivals shake a tail feather or two. Guitars are exchanged for some crazed pad thumping and knob twiddling that brings a heavily distorted sound to the end of the set.
A hugely diverse audience is now filing into the sold out show faster than ten-cent pieces into the “Tips 4 Carol’s divorce from Trevor” jar at the bar. The smoke machine is turned on, ice blue lights flood the stage and the photographers are poised as we await The Peep Tempel.
Led by frontman Blake Scott, the band kicks off with Dark Beach and Thank You Machiavelli, before jumping intothe spitting, clashing and loathing sound of Vicki the Butcher. Waystowe Kingston Men’s Home displays a softer, pleading diversion from Scott’s usual vocal style, which reflects the song’s dark subject matter. Continuing with material from their second album Tales, drummer Stevie Striker and bassist Stewart Rayner lash out Getting on By and the downright saucy Big Fish – both of which get the crowd a-shuffling.
A swirling sea of mosh is foaming up at the front of the stage, and shit is collectively lost when Scott belts Carol in a manner akin to a pissed-up bloke from Liverpool, manically shouting through Carol’s letterbox. Mission Floyd is requested by the solid female fan-base up front, and the precision with which it’s played highlights the technical leaps The Peep Tempel have made in recent years.
By this point, the lads are chinning vodka straight from the bottle and Scott is utilising his car keys to decapitate beers. There’s no set list and electric guitars are constantly battered and shaken between songs to ensure noise fills the room at all times. Scott roams the stage, stomping faster and faster between two microphones, becoming louder, angrier and frenzied whilst screaming, “You wouldn’t fucking believe it.” This whips the crowd into a throbbing disarray of limbs, inducing acid reflux and an epic end to the show.
BY ROSEMARY ANSTEAD
Photo by Phoebe Powell
Loved: That Blake Scott drives a Nissan, not a Holden Colorado.
Hated: That more people don’t rock up for the support bands.
Drank: Christmas ham.
