The Howling Fiends

Chelmsford Hot Box

The twang’s the thang.

Clearly, recreating the gig experience in these troubled times is no mean feat. Gazing into your phone as microscopic speakers tinnily distort is no substitute for ecstatically sloshing around in the multifarious bodily fluids of your closely-packed peers as an up-close PA cacophonously pulverises your viscera. So venues have had to get inventive to survive.

The folks at snug space Hot Box have refused to fold and have instead set up cameras to regularly livestream shows played before a skeleton crew. And it works. Performances enjoy an after-life; low-profile, no-budget bands can spread their word for next to nothing and reach a global audience with a relatively pro-shot show that far exceeds the limitations of fan-shot YouTube clips. More venues should get with the programme, as it’s a music-sharing promo model that’s surely got strong post-covid legs.

London-based Greek/Sardinian trio Howling Fiends suit their minimalist environment perfectly. Their mesmeric blend of surf-guitar psychedelia and Greek folk tropes recalls Dick Dale’s Miserlou twisted through a distorting Cramps prism then slanted spacewards with a suggestion of Man Or Astroman? sci-fi here and a dash of B-52’s spice there. Their fiendish charm is only intensified by being crushed through a router and spat into our shared dystopian lockdown from an anonymous alien location that could be Chelmsford, Greece or, more likely, Mars.