words Mai Tane Hermosa
Oh well, I am excited fr this one, and here I go, off on another big rock night in the city—this time to see The Brian Jonestown Massacre at the Albert Hall. The venue is structurally marvelous, a grand reminder of Victorian architecture. Even though the building isn’t the best for acoustics, it offers a solid 2,500-person capacity and great views from every spot—especially of the stunning church organ crowning the stage.
The night begins with a psychedelic guitar intro, leading into a melodic tune by Les Big Byrd, the Swedish supporting band. Their set is filled with dramatic synthesizers, robust drumming, and the sexy energy of frontman Joakim Ahlund, who starts singing after the second track with a raspy, deep voice. I feel like this will put us in the right mood to enjoy BJM. Their 30-minute set is packed with hyper-mad guitars, harmonies, and metallic synths that, at times, spiral into frenzied revolutions. The band is tight, and their performance takes us on a journey, balancing soft and hard moments of excitement that transcend the stage. Ahlund, looking sculptural, holds his guitar in the air multiple times, amplifying this sweet cookie of psychedelia and garage rock.
As we reach the final 10-minute song, it begins at a slow pace, pulling us into a beautiful jungle of rhythm guitars, melting our souls into a river of cosmic noise. We’ve been clapping and cheering after every track, and as the band wraps up, they thank and greet the crowd. This trip to a magic wonderland ends with the softest keyboard strumming, rocking us like a lullaby.
Time flies as the stage is rearranged, while BJM’s recorded music plays over the speakers. And just as the clock strikes 9, I count seven cowboys taking the stage, all in jeans and dark sunglasses, stepping into a dimly lit red haze that will remain unchanged for most of the show. The crowd is so excited that we give them a standing ovation before they even play a note. They stand sweetly, with big smiles, waving into the void, where the dark crowd cheers and claps. The first sounds we hear come from the keyboard, which gently merges with the audience’s excitement before slowly fading our voices out.
The first song feels like a warm-up, with steady and tight guitars. The energy begins to build—we are burning for them, ready to fly along with their flames—but suddenly, at the end of the first song (and, unfortunately, at the end of most of them), the entire band falls silent. They stare into the distance, looking lost, while the sound techs do their job. They barely interact with each other or the audience. This cold, detached atmosphere lingers for the entire two-hour set, making it difficult to get into the flow of a performance that feels fractured.
Hoping it was just an issue with the sound check, I try to remain patient. But by the third song, they stop mid-performance. “Sorry about that.” At this moment, Anton Newcombe finally addresses us—because he has no other choice. He mentions Valentine’s Day, thanks us for being there, and says he loves us. But throughout the night, he only speaks a couple more times—to remind us that they’re musicians and they’re here to play, or to complain about the inefficiency of social media for musicians, which keeps pushing the same mainstream artists over and over again.
I was surprised that technical difficulties and sluggish execution dominated a night where the music was played with precision yet extreme calmness by every member of the band. From the very beginning, I could feel the crowd’s energy—we were eager to dance, connect, feel their music, and vibrate with them. However, the long pauses between songs and the band’s passivity slowly spread yawns through the audience. The atmosphere felt tedious. I was shocked that this dynamic remained unchanged for the entire two exhausting hours.
Halfway through the concert, there was another very long pause. The lights came on, and they asked for medical assistance for someone in the crowd. Over an hour in, and it seemed like the energy wanted to take off—but that dreadful feeling just wouldn’t go away. The only spark I could hold onto was the guitarist, who danced endlessly like a snake, empowering his 12-string guitar.
This is a band I had been wanting to see for a long time, and it made me sad to realize that I just wanted to leave. The only reason I didn’t was because I wanted to be able to tell you how it ended—or if anything changed. I wasn’t expecting one of those infamous on-stage riots they’re known for, but I’ve seen dead flies with more charm and engagement.
That being said, there were a couple of good moments—when Ahlund returned to perform a song with the band, the energy shifted drastically, and the Hall came alive, raging for it. And then, suddenly, without warning, after two hours on stage, they finished playing—hardly saying goodbye, as if it weren’t their concern that we were all still standing there, patiently waiting to be tossed a drop of juice.
It really upset me that I had been looking forward to experiencing their music live, and they offered nothing but an “okay” delivery of their songs. No feeling, no sentiment, no expression. Hidden in the darkness of the red neon lights for the entire set, the band members seemed lost between songs. After more than 25 years, a band with so much potential has endless possibilities in terms of lighting, stage design, and visuals—and none of those were fulfilled in this performance.
Next time, I’d rather stay home with a beer in one hand and a Rollie in the other.
