Lungfish's Daniel Higgs

To the uninitiated, their songs appear as droning, guitar-oriented things that spin in an endless cycle of dirge and repetition. To those willing to immerse themselves in this curio of curios, however, Lungfish songs are sprawling, circular little universes imbued with a timeless, transcendent beauty, propelled by lyrical imagery that is both surreal and confrontational. Before long, these songs prompt trance-like head nodding of the kind most commonly associated with religious experience -- think Hebrews bowing to the will of the Wailing Wall, or the trances of Zen meditation.

Propped against the venue bar of Camden's rock-centric subterrain, the Underworld, I couldn't help but wonder how any of this was likely to translate to the living, breathing flesh of the live environment. All day, in fact, I'd contemplated Lungfish's compelling mystique in anticipation of tonight's show (their first London gig in 12 years), along with Daniel Higgs's curious lyrical observations, such as "O the way you distribute yourself in tablet form / From which you abstain" or "The flag suffers an emblem of waste / The emblem embroidered by embryo fins" (both from 2000's Necrophones). Scanning the assembled, I suspected that I was not alone.

Before I lost myself in thought, P.W. Long ambled on stage, providing a neat respite from the evening's previous sonic bluster, provided by Capricorns and Bullet Union (both terrific, by the way). A solo one-man, one-guitar set-up helped Long to drive the audience into a wistful haze that was both introspective and hyperactive, alternating between punchy, high-octane acoustic thwack and plucky, countrified melancholy. Belting out a fistful of songs from his upcoming album Remembered, he halted at one point to mourn the passing of Johnny Cash, but opted out of a cover on the grounds that there's enough Cash influence in his repertoire already. "I never really understood why people got so upset by the deaths of rock stars -- y'know, Elvis, John Lennon, whatever...", he said, "until recently, when I realised that the world's a lesser place without the Man In Black". A hugely deserved whoop of applause followed this touching admission; a more honest and heartfelt tribute to Cash you'd be unlikely to find. An inspiring talent, ripe with charisma, overwhelmed with passion and vitality, Long stirred heartstrings the way most chefs toss salads, while rocking out with ease. By the time he finished his set, having barked the memorable line "My dick's as hard as Chinese arithmetic" with the kind of vim and gusto you'd associate with the Man in Black himself, I was so enthralled that I'd very nearly forgotten who I came here to see...

Lungfish! From the first song, it was clear that Daniel Higgs's terrifying stage allure sits in somewhat stark contrast with the ridiculously tight, looping slow-grooves dealt out by the near-stationary musicians behind him. Unhinged to a fault, and sporting one of the finest beards in Christendom, he wandered the stage, seeking solace in the darkness, caressing/attacking the microphone stand, rubbing himself with the microphone, constantly losing then re-composing himself, mopping his brow with a handkerchief -- all the while screeching deranged mantras like "The Earth turns slower still / In a Christful of empty space / That the devil yearns to fill...Through halls of glass sarcophagi / Through the pupil of a lidless eye". His piercing glare and possessed disposition not only provided a visual counterpoint to his band's relative inertia, but revealed him to be a man who clearly means business. He had the demeanor of either a lunatic street shaman, a frazzled poet, a prophet of doom or the kind of aged mental patient who seems to have all the answers; either way, he was an incredible performer, the kind you daren't take your eyes off. So unassuming (perhaps even unaware) of his surroundings that at one point, he fell off a bannister, crashing to the floor, then rose again to emit an unholy primal scream. His voice was an extraordinary thing, taking on any number of shapes, from a spoken-word mumble to a visceral, cathartic growl, while the hypnotic, cyclical interplay created by bassist Sean Meadows, guitarist Asa Osbourne, and drummer Mitchell Feldstein was similarly mind-mangling. Each of them barely moved, immersed in the sense of apparent infinity afforded by the slow, gravelly rumble that emerged from their instruments.

As a listening experience, Lungfish are transcendent and entrancing. As a living, breathing, organic live experience, the Lungfish assault is like nothing else on Earth -- part religious experience, part intergalactic transmutation, part art-rock happening. Witnessing their jaw-dropping live show, though, begs a somewhat obvious question: why such a sporadic, infrequent approach to live performance? Like virtually everything else with Lungfish, I guess it's a mystery.

My buddy and I found the exit with the deep-vein throb of the Lungfish groove still coursing through our lobes, both of us in something of a trance. In the chilly autumn dark outside, people and places seemed to take on bizarre new shapes and the world looked slightly different, everything assuming some imagined profundity. As we left, even the merch table (from which I purchased a copy of the band's terrific new record Love Is Love) seemed to take on the form of a bizarre, fleshy organism. As for my place within the legions of Lungfish followers, I was hereby converted. Sign me up to the Lungfish cult and blast me out into the universe, for tonight was something ridiculously special -- transcendent, bizarre, cathartic and scary. I guess I have a long wait in store until the next time I witness the Lungfish live experience, but as they say, patience is a virtue. I'll know that better than ever in, say, twelve years or so.

Article by Allan Harrison.