Live Review: Brant Bjork

Like the slouching beast from Yeats' dreams, the monolithic, down-tuned sound of Brant Bjork is an implacable dinosaur from a time and place outside of rock's current reality. If you have a look back at his setlists over the last 12 months, and then compare it to his latest show at the Stag, you'll notice it hasn't changed at all. It's fossilised, like his sound, and that of 'stoner rock' in general. It's a sound that, in the weed-addled minds of its crusty followers, was (and is) earth-shattering. Indeed, it dominated the scene for a short blessed while. Now, it's largely gone. In its place are leaner, faster, glossier genres that seem thin and fragile. Still, Bjork (Fu Manchu, Mondo Generator, motherfuckin' Kyuss), and his impressive mane of hair, remains as stoic and stoned as ever.

They opened with the sluggish (they're all pretty sluggish, but this one's a bit lifeless) Buddha Time (Everything Fine) as a range finder, content to simply build steam. Once they hit Humble Pie, they were cooking. It's a sleazy, road-house rambler, one of the few songs with a bit of levity. Moving through Stackt, we got to Lazy Bones/Automatic Fantastic, a ten-minute epic that demands more of Bjork in both vocals and guitar. It had swag and a filthy, coal-black funk that was magnetic. The show had its high water mark right there.

The crowd only filled half the bandroom, but it was enough. It's doubtful he could care less about the size of his audience. Brant Bjork is content to bellow and shred (slowly, oh so slowly), circling the same few tree-felling riffs and chords that give stoner rock its formidable power.