Ghostwoman

The Garage

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

A gig so good it almost made the dead feel again. Discipline and decay in perfect harmony.

On a damp November night, the ghost of a long-dead librarian finds herself among the living at The Garage. She’s come not for joy, for she no longer feels such things, but to witness, and finds a duo so locked in step they could raise the dead; or silence them. Order, precision, and the slow pleasure of punishment fill the room as the living prove, once again, they’ve forgotten how to listen.

November is the cruelest of months, when the living still reek of Halloween sugar, cheap ale and bad decisions. The Garage heaved under their weight, swollen with bodies pressed together, and brains switched off. Some nights beg for silence. This one would be denied it.

Before the resurrection, Boy Wonder staggered onstage, a solo spectre from Toronto; his voice shredded like old parchment and soaked in lager, rasped raw from too many nights and too few beds. You could smell the tour on him: rust, petrol, and nicotine. There was something noble in it, like the last candle trying to light itself in a blackout. It suited the moment: a prelude to the discipline that would follow.

Then the house darkened. A hum of expectation, then precision, Ghostwoman took the stage. No fanfare, just the faint metallic scent of something about to break. Staccato notes shimmered through the gloom. They began with ‘WTTCW’ and ‘Alive’, the latter a title cutting a bit close for those doomed to haunt eternity. Evan Uschenko’s guitar snarled, each riff snapping like a whip; Ille van Dessel answered with a snare so clean it could slice open time itself. Each riff cut through the stale North London air like a librarian’s “shhh” amplified through a reverb pedal.

There is a shorthand between them that defies mortal language; nods, micro-expressions, the faintest shift of the shoulder, a pagan ritual in its own right. A dialogue in glances and gestures, like telepathy disguised as timing. The kind of understanding librarians dream of enforcing in reading rooms: unspoken, absolute. When Evan leaned into a bend, Ille caught it mid-air and drove it into the floor tom. When she twitched the hi-hat, he bent a note around it like wire. Precision and decay, locked in a waltz.

‘Jesus NC’, ‘5 Gold’, ‘Levon NC’; each number dragged the crowd deeper into the dirt, a baptism of noise and tension. Ille, maraca and drumstick in one hand, looked possessed by rhythm itself, the kind of elegance earned only through exhaustion. Every beat was a command, every roll a reprimand. Each track a spectral blur of desert twang and urban decay. Ille kept time like she was binding spells, hair haloed in purple light, face carved by rhythm and drumming with haunted grace. Those who dared speak over it deserved excommunication. When Evan struck, Ille responded instantly, every snare hit meeting a guitar’s collapse, every pause charged with threat. There was no excess, only control. Even the spaces between notes felt patrolled.

Evan’s patience thinned. Between songs he squinted toward the bar; the chatterers, the unrepentant. “You’re still talking, eh?” His tone didn’t rise, it curdled like a noise that refuses to be quieted, even by death. A Canadian politeness weaponised into threat. The living, of course, laughed. They always do before the lights flicker.

Still, Ghostwoman persevered; ‘Anhedonia’, ‘Do You’, ‘End of a Gun NC’, songs of motion, collapse, control. Each felt like steering a fishtailing car down an icy road, Death humming in the backseat. The guitar and drums were one body splitting itself in two, each limb rebelling yet perfectly synchronised. Ghostwoman played as someone who’s forgotten mercy. Evan’s tone was glass, sharp, cold, fatal. Together they carved a rhythm that punished distraction.

Perhaps as mockery or divine irony, came a partial cover of Led Zeppelin’s ‘Stairway to Heaven’ nearing the end of the set. The crowd, suddenly reverent, swayed as if they’d found God in someone else’s chords. The irony stung like ice. The drunkest among them adored it, unaware they were being measured for their own descent. By the end, ‘From Now On’ and ‘Yoko’ rang like final rites. No encore. None needed. The silence that followed was the truest sound of the night.

Ghostwoman do not play for joy. They play for discipline. For dread. For the exquisite moment where a room of the living forgets itself. They played like a system tightening around the listener. Every note a warning. Every silence a threat. Those who listened left marked. Those who talked will soon learn what it means to be haunted.

By Ms. Lydia Lament, Former Librarian, keeper of silence, deceased.

Bonnie Trash

The Grace

Word & Pics by Captain Stavros

Caught Red Right Handed: Bonnie Trash Possess The Grace  

This evening has been years in the making, but most of London is unwittingly missing out. Just outside Highbury & Islington Tube, The Grace looms like a scar on the city’s skin; a part of London forever caught between polish and grime. Tonight promises to get filthier still. It’s Monday night, and it’s time to take out the Trash. Only this time, the Trash is taking us out, white-hot and merciless.  The Bortolon-Vettor twins take the stage like revenants. Sarafina, leather-clad and statuesque, fixes the room with a Medusan stare and doesn’t let go until the final feedback collapses into the floor. A perfect crucible for Bonnie Trash’s brand of gothic demolition. They launch straight into ‘Maria’, a convulsion of riffs and vocal shrieks that feels like it’s been waiting years to escape. Emmalia, half-hidden beneath her fringe and oversized leathers, hammers out riffs so loud the sound techs beg her to turn down. She obliges only with the reluctance of someone sacrificing a child. This doesn’t stop them from twisting the fretboard into something ugly and unholy, stubbornly loud enough that the sound techs continue to plead for mercy. She relents with all the grace of a predator letting go of prey.

But it’s Emma on bass who draws the eyes almost as much as the ears. Bespectacled, wide-eyed like some nocturnal owl, sci-fi tattoos crawling up her arms, she drops basslines that feel like seismic aftershocks under the floorboards. Together with Dana on drums; a shadowy powerhouse who bends cymbals and time signatures seemingly with the ease of a mentalist warping spoons. Instead of tearing the place apart she was the cohesive and rhythmic gravitational force magnetising Bonnie Trash to the stage. Together they formed a storm system, black-skied and unpredictable. They stitched terror into melody as deftly as a surgeon’s hand.

The setlist reads like a series of open wounds: ‘Veil’, ‘Hell’, ‘Poison’, ‘Zero’. Each track claws deeper into the night and into the backs of our skulls. Their mid-set lunge into ‘Red Right Hand’ doesn’t honour Nick Cave so much as obliterates him. This isn’t Cave’s sly preacher. This is a mauling; a ruthless, feral reimagining that strips the flesh from the original. Arguably the hardest, most merciless version of it ever wrung from the source, brutal and snarling. The vocals continue to scrape against the tremolo guitars, a jagged clash that leaves no space for thought tonight. Forget spectacle, this is attrition by decibel; a show that feels wired to outlast you.

By the end, after ‘What Have You Become’ seals the night shut, guitars slump against amps like wreckage and the stage feels like it’s been levelled. Sarafina peels off her coat to deliver a raw “please don’t leave me rotting in the ground,” and for a moment the crowd seems ready to hand over their souls in exchange. Religion doesn’t quite cover it; this was something colder, more physical, like being possessed by a frequency too low for the human ear. And yet, when the noise subsides, the frost thaws. Bonnie Trash become mortal again, thanking every last punter, signing anything shoved in their hands, and laughing about careering rentals down unlit country roads on the “wrong” side of the lanes. But for the hour before that? They weren’t a band. They were an entity dragging us into their orbit, and leaving us changed.

The Boojums

Strongroom Bar

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

“Best Thing Out of Halifax Since Sloan? The Boojums Make Their Case in London”
 No Frills and Absolute Loser provided the warm-up, but Halifax’s loudest hope turned a polite Tuesday into a total detonation.

Three Canadian bands, one tiny East London stage, and a room that felt like it might combust. No Frills, Absolute Loser, and headliners The Boojums weren’t just here to play; they were here to make you forget you had anywhere else to be.

It all started with that familiar London shuffle; crowd lingering near the bar, nursing pints until No Frills gave everyone a reason to move forward. Their set had the kind of unhurried pace that made you feel like you’d stepped into a maritime kitchen party. Having just been to the far east of Canada, it was impossible not to hear that island-time ease in the way they stretched every groove, drawing the crowd closer with every chorus.

Absolute Loser picked up where No Frills left off and tilted things towards chaos. There was a battle of the bands energy about their set, the kind of gleeful antagonism that makes you root for them even harder. They sound like they’re daring you not to like them, then reward you with melodies that worm their way into your brain and stay there for days. By the time they launched into a song about “hanging out and not having a good time”, it was clear they had no interest in compromise; and the crowd loved them for it.

Then came The Boojums. How do you describe the sun to the blind? Fucking hell, they just detonated the place. The sound didn’t just start, it exploded. The first woo slipped out before anyone could catch themselves. These misfits, this baroque mishmash of Halifax weirdos, made you proud to be Canadian even if you weren’t.

And yet, a note on etiquette, because Canada is meant to be the land of politeness, right? Their drummer, still in full Adidas tracksuit, had spent the earlier sets loudly chatting over No Frills like it was his own living room. A little tact, in both conversation and clothing choice, wouldn’t have gone amiss. Thankfully, once he sat behind the kit, all was forgiven. The rallying cry of Sarah’s vocals, when the sound desk actually let them cut through, yanked the room into line.

When she had the mic to herself there was something cathartic in Sarah’s voice, when the sound desk actually let it cut through, a rallying call that begged to be fortified with a bit more confidence didn’t just tug at the room but yanked us into line. The wooooooos became communal, primal even. It was the kind of set that made objectivity impossible.

‘Don’t Wanna Love’ sent the crowd into a frenzy and by the time they closed with ‘Meeting In The Middle’, it was clear London had been converted. The Boojums might still be playing rooms where you can touch the ceiling, but god help us all if they stay at seven-foot stages forever. They’ve got an album dropping on Halloween, and judging by tonight’s detonation, it might just be the best thing out of Halifax since Sloan.

Walking out into Shoreditch, ears ringing, the chants of “Gravy” still echoing somewhere behind you, there’s only one thought: please let this not be their last visit.

South Facing Festival

@ Crystal Palace

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Mogwai’s Bass-Driven Takeover of Crystal Palace

We wouldn’t exactly say that thinking of Crystal Palace is synonymous with notions of music festivals, but South Facing proved us wrong. Four years on, it still slips under most radars; an open-air horseshoe bowl at Crystal Palace Park, vendors and craft drinks hugging the rim, and a crowd of Adidas-track-jacketed gorp-core devotees, not glitter-tossing tossers. The kind of gathering where you keep your pint to yourself, not lob it over strangers’ heads. No laddish chaos, no jostling elbows; just an attentive, almost reverent audience. And with good reason; just a crowd quietly reverent for what was about to unfold.

South Facing has built a quiet reputation since 2021 for booking headliners that span grime, nostalgic britpop, ambient composers, and post-rock giants with genuine stature like Dizzee Rascal, Supergrass, and Max Richter; proof that it can swing between the nostalgic, the cerebral, and the mercurial without breaking a sweat. This year, the hook was irresistible: Scotland’s favourite sonic titans, Mogwai, rolling in for a night of dual widescreen catharsis. Their support lineup was no afterthought either. Ireland’s Lankum brought immersive, experimental folk; Scottish post-punk outfit The Twilight Sad added emotional heft; Caroline delivered choral emo-folk textures; and Glaswegian indie-heroes The Yummy Fur stirred nostalgia into the mix.

By dusk, the crowd had hushed. First came Lankum, their acoustic instruments and vocal harmonies swelling into something vast. The Twilight Sad delivered raw emotional altitude; Caroline’s choral weave and the Yummy Fur's sharp indie cuts kept ears alert. But let’s be real; everyone was awaiting the main event.

When Mogwai finally emerged, there was no slathered-on glitz, just a nod and then ‘God Gets You Back’. That bass. It wasn’t overwhelming; it was monumental. Vision blurred, fingers tingled. Mogwai’s low end wrapped around you, the sound was immense but never sloppy; every note folded in like careful ingredients to a cake batter, nothing drowning, everything binding. 

‘Hi Chaos’ stretched the air, tones drifting and colliding. ‘How to Be a Werewolf’ shimmered with tremolo guitars, each strum precision forged. ‘Cody’ offered a rare lyrical murmur; a whisper in the post-rock storm. ‘Drive the Nail’ pummeled, heavy and deliberate, while ‘2 Rights Make 1 Wrong’ felt like a sprawling, ink-smudged love letter to sound itself.

Then ‘Auto Rock’ brought a palate cleanser; a shimmering ELO-ish keyboard flourish cutting through the night. From there, the set darkened into ‘Remurdered’, its pulses Carpenter-ian and tense. ‘Fanzine Made of Flesh’ followed, every texture layered and intentional, reward for granular listening.

As sonic titans do, Mogwai delivered ‘Mogwai Fear Satan’ with volcanic crescendo; an emotional apex. ‘Lion Rumpus’ crackled with energy. ‘Ritchie Sacramento’ calmed the storm with introspective grief, and closer ‘We’re No Here’ detonated in finality; closing not with frills, but with raw intensity.

Mogwai’s sound is cinematic, disciplined, and largely lyricless by design; every burst of noise, every echo, carries weight. Their music has always been methodical, each note given its full measure before the next lands. And that bass? It’s not just heard. It’s felt. The earth trembles, your ribs resonate. The bowl itself seemed to hum with it as the final chords faded.

As the crowd filtered out; ears ringing, voices hushed, the lights dimmed, and the night exhaled. Mogwai didn’t just fill the stage; they remapped the place through sound. South Facing, with its pristine layout and thoughtful booking, gave them the space; and the sonic canvas, they deserved.