MOONSPELL/ ROTTING CHRIST SILVER DUST
ISLINGTON ASSEMBLY HALL, LONDON
Mediterranean mavens forge a triumphant double-header
CONSIDERING THEIR
HISTORICAL parallels, this co-headline tour feels like a moment whose time has come. Scene leaders in their respective countries, Greece’s Rotting Christ and Portugal’s Moonspell have reached beyond their raw, black metal roots into more spirit-rousing grandiose territories, given added recognition by tonight’s ornate, prestigious venue. Each have also put their own spin on a Mediterranean sound whose groove is so rich you could plant an orchard in it. Switzerland’s SILVER DUST clearly aren’t intimidated by their support slot, top hatted, canesporting frontman Lord Campbell entering to a carnivalesque intro tape like a Victorian MC as a framed video screen offers a trippy, looking-glass portal behind him. Musically, they take a while to acclimatise to, skittering off on gothic tangents, before their mid-paced pomp attempts to galvanise the crowd with a host of “Hey-heys”.
One of a small coterie of bands able to continue expanding out to wider audiences without losing any of their underground credentials, ROTTING CHRIST’S status has consistently risen to match their reputation. And like last year’s festival-stealing performance at Damnation, their set tonight is both
rowdy celebration and the summoning of a primal force. From the opening build-up of 666, rising from atmospheric chant to thundering battle cry, through
Dub-sag-ta-ke’s heartbeat-hijacking pulse to the elevating majesty of
Nemecic, the band’s mastery of dynamics becomes a singular, shitlosing experience. The accelerating ratcheting of tension, gargantuan pay-offs and vast, history-soaked scope, all given added impetus by frontman Sakis Tolis’s typically garrulous presence, reach a point of critical mass that sends the crowd into a frenzy. Apage Satana isn’t even a song; it’s a show of power that highlights
RC’S ability to combine the spectacular with sheer, visceral calls-to-arms.
If the audience has thinned out slightly for MOONSPELL, their followers are no less devoted, Fernando Ribeiro’s imperious, theatrical charisma apparent even beneath the plague mask he wears for the opening Em Nome Do Medo. Focusing on their conceptual 1755 album, the gothic overtones give rise to an occasional whiff of cheese, but there’s a wrought seriousness at the band’s heart, and an ability to play the crowd that keeps the Assembly Hall in full, triumphant mood throughout. JONATHAN SELZER