SILVERWINGKILLER photo by Paris Seawell
I woke up from an over long nap and put an infinite amount of tissues in my pocket since I have been bunged up for the past week (I have a long history of hitting my nose against heads, chairs, edges of steps, footballs and I have never received any kind of medical intervention which now translates to cavernous snoring and infinite snot in hay fever seasons which can dehydrate me if I don’t drink enough water) and ran to take the bus to Salford. Trying to breathe through my mouth, I think of how many trips left I have to the White Hotel until its closure.
plus44Kaligula
It is my second time seeing plus44Kaligula live, -project of Cally Statham- the first time was when she opened for These New Puritans in the same venue on 07.11.25. This first encounter was enough for me to feel tickles of interest in my left elbow. Today, dressed in a black dress with mustard (yellow?) leather like gloves covering her hands and a space demarcated by light that react to her beats and voices, like a machine-like-creature who is exhaling their last glimpses of life, her performance takes place. Her facial expressions, which I can only describe as an expressionist Buster Keaton if you can picture it, change as her body does which each song.
Not sure why -as the best and more horrifying things in life have no explanation- an intrusive thought emerged: I tried to translate the name plus44Kaligula to Spanish (in my head, of course) the first time I saw her live. Whilst Statham’s face was illuminated by different lights I kept repeating in my head máscuarentaycuatrokaligula x64; I even changed the initial numbers to the phone code from my home country, máscinconuevetreskaligula. I kept repeating this translation like a mantra for the following days when talking about the gig the night; this obsessive thought lingered in my head days after in conversations with my grandma, grandad (dead), dad (absent) or team leader.
plus44Kaligula is demarcated by a circle of light that encapsulate a space that will react dynamically to Statham’s music. Her performance will only happen inside this space, maybe tip toeing outside of it for a couple of seconds but always coming back to it. In this same space, Statham is supported by a metal-full-of-light-device/artifact-Giger-like-apparatus that seems to have its own erotic life, which she holds, receives light, sings to, detaches and attaches. All these elements build an image of the artist that fit with her music, as with Apples are now inherent to her aesthetics so when I think of the flavour of Granny Smith apples and my gums bleeding to the bite I think of +44 and when I think of peaches I think of Timothée Chalamet and when it comes to clementines I think of you and how you ate them, piece by piece, -or was it chunks by chunks? it’s fading now, everything that was and did not happen, etc-.
Mogan
My encounter with Mogan is a fully drenched first-arrived-to-Manchester-migrant affection, since the artist has become a constant in the past three years of my life in Manchester. Three weeks ago, I attended my first summer-Mogan-experience after undergoing a winter and autumn Mogan one. At the summer-Mogan-experience I witnessed the endurance of the human representation of Mogan inside a (latex? Pvc?) jumpsuit under the historic hot temperature of the past banny hols (yours truly uses this jolly expression every time there is a bank holiday after hearing it from a relative from my previous political family in Shrewsbury: pronounced Shroosbry, never Shresbury).
My first Mogan experience was an intimate gig at the Eagle Inn in 2024. The outfit of that day: red suit, shiny mask covering their visage that would bounce flashes of bright light from the sparkles incrusted on their face to everyone’s eyes and a wig that reminded me of the mental image I have of what JLG would have looked in the mornings. Today, he is wearing a fluffy and colourful mask, black skirt and light purple Docs.
Mogan’s Tom-Hardy’s-like-Bane-singing (this is of course a compliment btw) is for me one of the things I love the most about his music. In my summer Mogan experience I mentioned some lines ago, the gig was “almost” interrupted by him tripping over an acoustic guitar, after a cavernous I may need some help coming from the creature’s mouth, he managed to continue, unbothered by this tripping experience, unbothered by the steaming weather. The highlight of his performance live: his ability to endure in what can only seem as an effortless, lovingly, never-endingly, eerily, tightly, snugly, fluffy (today I experience the fluffiness of the Mogan mask), full of colour, suddenly ended, singing, as the flowers we will never see growing outside the White Hotel.
I have only seen Mogan with a full band once at Yes and once again today: with Adrian Steele on the Saxophone and Louise Utteridge on flute; Steele’s saxophone marked the start of the tautly, fully, tightly, increasingly lyrics of House Rules. Self-described sound as noisy melodic brash electro-pop, Mogan live performances are also mixed by their participation with the audience by him looking eye-to-eye to them (does the Mogan creature have eyes or some kind of sight organic extension with each suit they wear?) and then switching by going into berserk mode dancing.
Twenty One Children
Of all these bands, the only one I haven’t seen live before was Soweto based trio Twenty One Children; formed by Abdula Skink (vocals) Thulasizwe Nkosi (guitars) and Biko (drums). It’s quite difficult not to like Twenty One Children, even when you haven’t seen them live before: the trio is made up of friends -listen to the beginning of their last album After the Storm to hear a reflective Thula talking about where he and the band is at the moment and how grateful he feels with what he is living. Their music does not end in their gigs and releases, it has a presence, organizing charity events at Thula’s house, building skateparks, skating in skateparks. There is a track called Pathol O.G. in Bill Callahan’s last album, My days of 58 where he says about music: I don’t wanna say that it saved my life, but it gave me a life, Twenty One Children are sure of this, of how music can change and maybe give a sense, a purpose, a possible path.
The songs are short, fuelled with personal experiences and alight by overdosed vocals, salmonella-raw like guitars and drums that maintain the rhythm, keep the sanity of the tracks.
A mosh pit certainly happened and yours truly partook for most of it which helped to melt the substance trapped in my sinuses which gave me the ability to breathe through my nostrils again. I was able to have a quick chat with Abdula before the gig, whilst he was telling me how grateful he was about the tour, I was thinking how all that growling comes out of his gentle voice. First time in Salford and second in the UK, 21 Children effortlessly connected with a light lit audience which reminded me of a Fugazi gig. Thulasizwe and Abdula joined the audience and some point and extended the stage to the public, however the only person who put foot on the stage (very briefly, to boost himself to the audience) was James Baca.
SILVERWINGKILLER
As with Mogan, my encounter with SILVERWINGKILLER is now remembered with affection by poor old yours. Briefly explained: SILVERWINGKILLER (opening act of Liturgy on 21.09.24) was the first artist I saw live at the White Hotel; I arrived early, nauseously anxious and skint as I have never been in my life. I remember writing something about how I overheard James Baca (1/2 of SILVERWINGKILLER) saying to someone something about moving to Glasgow due to the ascending cost of living prices in Manchester. I scarcely remember Liturgy’s set but I fully remember SILVERWINGKILLER one, their Glasgow future maybe plans, their energy and how one of the plates of Baca’s drums fell apart whilst playing and he did not stop.
Self-described as electronic punk, and their live performances possibly fitting the later if we are looking for categorizations, SILVERWINGKILLER is a corporeal experience that can be best enjoyed live. Before the start of their set, I decided to place myself at the back of the audience, cooling down from the mosh pit. The release of GUNMAN CORNER in platforms earlier this weeks, I was able to “get ready” familiarizing myself with the sounds I have already felt live: throbbing sounds, throbbing lights, lyrics smoothly switched from English to Chinese and from Chinese to English; one word comes to my head to describe them as a whole: SOUP. One that is thrown against your face (with your consent, of course, and stays there since it has travelled through all the orifices of your skull.) This soup is one that you eat in a hot city, hot like Guayaquil, where you would go to the market to eat your boiling broth infused liquid whilst you season it with the salt and pepper of your sweat, and you keep eating, and you even add some hot sauce to add some eye redness to the picture.
Hours later, filled with sleep and dried sweat at the Eagle Inn, echoing in my head:
máscinconuevetreskaligula máscinconuevetreskaligula máscinconuevetreskaligula máscinconuevetreskaligula máscinconuevetreskaligula máscinconuevetreskaligula máscinconuevetreskaligula máscinconuevetreskaligula máscinconuevetreskaligula máscinconuevetreskaligula máscinconuevetreskaligula máscinconuevetreskaligula
