Kerrang! (UK) - - Lives - JAMES MACK­IN­NON

A night of dec­i­mat­ing noise from the Chicago post-metal kings

At a cer­tain vol­ume, Rus­sian Cir­cles cease to be a sen­sa­tion that en­ters through your ears, but some­thing that sinks in through your pores. Your guts re­ver­ber­ate, your teeth rat­tle to numb­ness within your skull, as if ev­ery cell in your body were re­con­struct­ing it­self to the sounds they’re mak­ing. Through the smoke per­me­at­ing this bare-bones ware­house comes an even hazier rum­ble, as open­ers Bossk make beers and knees quake with sludgy neb­u­lae of fuzz. More adrenalised than their coun­ter­parts this even­ing, post-ev­ery­thing rock­ers Bru­tus careen along on skit­ter­ing gui­tars and car-crash per­cus­sion, with Ste­fanie Man­naerts’ howls in­ject­ing glass-shat­ter­ing fe­roc­ity to the band’s sonic flash-bang grenades. For sheer shock and awe, though, Rus­sian Cir­cles are a force of na­ture. Colos­sal grooves and sus­tained sin­gle notes roar like wind blow­ing through some Hi­malayan ravine, and the air even seems to thin as Afrika reaches its howl­ing, cli­mac­tic peak, be­fore Young­blood dives into steam­rolling riffs of planet-de­stroy­ing mag­ni­tude. Whether you sway, head­bang or stand trans­fixed in moun­tain­ous won­der, Rus­sian Cir­cles will bring you back down to your knees.

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