When the human race inevitably obliterates itself and mutant ascendants are scratching around our rubble trying to make sense of it all, one perplexing question may arise: why would anyone deliberately go to a Grey Daturas show? For some in the Maggotsville crowd tonight, it was about the doom. The metal folk at the front (the guys with long hair who grandly and regularly flick it backwards, as if petting themselves, or irrigating sweat) didn’t sense the cut mustard. “Where’s the doom!” they yelled as the three-piece did a short sound check, which sounded misleadingly similar to their main act.

I can’t be sure if ‘doom’ is what was actually delivered to the folk. It’s one in an ever-expanding milieu of heavy metal genre tags designed to differentiate slightly varying takes on a similar theme, though bands as different as Candlemass, Earth and My Dying Bride have, sometimes dubiously, had the ‘doom’ descriptor tagged to them. Grey Daturas aren’t really that dark per se: when I listen to their still killer Dead In The Woods I’m more compelled to smile at the sheer gratuitousness of it all than, I dunno, zone out and reflect on humanity’s woes.

On stage, the Grey Daturas use sheer volume as a mind masseur, or exfoliate. Thirty minutes of brutally uncompromising and repetitive rock-ensemble feedback is probably killing the very brain cells you might use to decide this isn’t such a great idea, but that’s how the cult grows. The appeal of all this is the physicality of the music. It often feels like the notes are taking a stand and pushing you backwards, or squeezing your head, or tazing your legs. The constant to-and-fro of the mid-paced percussion does have menace, and I don’t doubt the band members use this mode to expunge demons of their own, but for the audience the after affect is something of a depressant. There is a buzz in your skull and it feels slightly awkward to walk. It’s masochistic and exhausting, but then, the bringing of the apocalypse isn’t meant to be a tea party.

by Shaun Prescott