Live Review: The Black Angels, The Laurels, Zeahorse

A scattered crowd and an early timeslot greets Sydney's Zeahorse, who proffer a short stab of a set that is full of crunchy scuzz and noisy abandon, with only a whiff of the psychedelia that imbues the rest of the line-up, most notably in the distorted breakdown halfway through the deliciously warped Tugboat. It's not often that a full-frontal aural assault comes at the beginning of the night – their inclusion here starts to make sense.

Also hailing from Sydney, The Laurels walk onstage to an oscillating drone that permeates their decidedly shoegaze-driven set. The vocals are unfortunately washed out of the mix in the first two songs, but once the layers are set the four-piece truly deliver. Luke O'Farrell thrashes about while Piers Cornelius remains relatively still in comparison, yet their dual guitars drench the audience in swathes of atmosphere and distortion. Conor Hannan's basslines cut straight through to the bone, and Kate Wilson's metronomic drums propel everything into the stratosphere. A set heavily influenced by their Plains record of last year, the band are all smiles, clearly revelling in their time onstage and promising even greater things in the near future.

Rumour has it that purveyors of all things psych rock The Black Angels have never played a bad show. Although this does sound like heretical hearsay, it is clear from the minute the first astral (and jawdroppingly mesmeric) projections hit the wall that these Texans have crafted their art meticulously, nothing being left to chance. So it is tonight as the band promote their newest album Indigo Meadow, a record that highlights the newly four-piece (joined tonight by Rishi Dhir) continuing to play with the sprawling, dirge-like formula that saw them become instant gods back a decade ago. Opening with the older, darker Vikings, Alex Maas' iconic voice holds sway, reverbed, barbed, an aural hypnotic narcotic. Christian Bland slays on guitar, encapsulating an entire genre, while Stephanie Bailey is scintillating on the skins. I Hear Colors and marching, taunting mantra Don't Play With Guns come next; Entrance Song spirals downwards, inhabiting its own parallel world. When Telephone hits the trajectory is complete – this no longer sounds like an aberration, but a joyful alleviation. There are moments which are true touchstones to the band's forebears (The Day; Yellow Elevator #2), while old favourites The Sniper and Young Men Dead are brutally magnetic. Two-plus hours and one encore later, and The Black Angels' track record remains resolutely intact.