'We Can Elude Control' is an annual event curated by Paul Purgas that focuses on electronic music and sonic art, this year centered around improvised analogue performances.
First on the bill was Sybella Perry and Iain Woods, a human/machine mesh of Woods' vocals and generated tones from Perry. Various registers were wrapped around one another, the vocals wide open-mouthed drones giving the proceedings a liturgical feel, like the a tech-cult ceremony. The audience joining two priests in an electro-baptism. An intriguing performance, Perry and Woods utilised the venue's natural resonance well, achieving an effective synthesis of concrete, vocal chords, and manipulated electronic tones.
Peter Manerfelt's gave a less polite show. The sound fired from his EMD Synthi synthesizer resembling a giant revving engine, full of rubberised quaking. He employed chest-rattling sub-bass in a thumping assault. Eyeball quivering decibel levels dimmed the lights with every bass hit. An acid-soaked mid-range planed off curls of brain matter. An awesome display of cell-quaking zen noise communion.
Anna Zaradny occupied no less fierce territory, a sub-sonic buzzsaw beneath knife sharp upper-register screams, joined by periodic sustained air-raid sirens. This was Futurist noise, shorn of all club signifiers, unconstrained by any grid or pulse. Disparate scatterings of glassy sound-shards and low wobbling debris were gradually subsumed in a beautiful drone sculpture, towering and awesome.
John Wall and Lee Gamble unleashed wobbling ghost harmonics run through a harsh noise grinder. Heads reverberated with industrial piston hiss and sudden obliquely angled feedback shards. The end of their set saw them attack with brutal death-drums.
The final act of the evening was Miles Whittaker and his booming techno death-rave. His set was a drilling head-nodding gravity well; a spine of pulsing bass provided a life-line through a wilderness of drone and acid wobble, a dystopic club banger. This was industro rave of hammering intensity, the creeping dread of his duo work in Demdike Stare abandoned for pure adrenal rush, evoking a dust-choked club, cobwebs billowing around the dancefloor in place of dry ice and lasers.