Day One: Friday
It’s that most magical time of the year, when two of Glasgow’s most unlikely venues play host to all manner of weird, wonderful and occasionally harrowing acts from across the globe, and for three days this little corner of the world becomes a little bit more accepting and a lot more damaging to the eardrums. It’s time for Core. Festival, now in its third year and still going strong, with another solid line-up that caters to all tastes (as long as they don’t mind an Orange amp or five). After picking up tickets, we scoot off to the cosy confines of The Hug and Pint for what turns out to be our only visit of the night (though thankfully just the first of the weekend).
We’re there in plenty of time for God Alone to take stage, who are kicking off what could loosely be called The Hug’s ‘math-rock night’. That said, to reduce them to that would be a massive disservice as they sprint through so many disparate moods in their too-brief half-hour that calling them anything would just seem wrong, somehow. There are shades of hardcore, of sludge in their weightier moments when all five connect in pursuit of a massive riff, and of metal, but what bridges them is a heightened sense of energy. It’s gung-ho from the get-go and with ‘The Beep Test’ they manage to hit the perfect balance of dazzling intricacy and toe-tapping, ass-shaking melody.
God Alone. Photo: Bruce Cowie
OMO. Photo: Bruce Cowie
A short dash over to Woodside Halls has us arrive for the entrance of noise-rock supergroup-of-sorts OMO, including singer P6 (aka Phil Eaglesham, ex-DeSalvo) who weaves his way through the crowd looking like an infernal cardinal, dressed head-to-toe in red and carrying a tote in one hand, and a moustachioed head that had evidently been liberated from outside a pizzeria in the other. For anyone else it might seem a bit peculiar but for OMO, it’s just what everyone signed up for. The tone is resolutely filthy, a stream of gravelly low-end, and curt, relentless percussion setting up P6’s fevered ravings; and with each gyration and howled utterance from him the feeling cements itself that there isn’t really anything quite like this at the moment. Still, if anyone out there has played their Burning Witch LPs to the point of disrepair, it might be worth keeping an eye out for future material from this mob.
Helms Alee. Photo: Bruce Cowie
For many, the appearance of Helms Alee marks the first real draw of this festival. Even though the trio have been working the circuit for decades, it’s the first time that they’ve made it to Scotland, and their absence has certainly been felt by a few of us in the room. Their take on sludge is unique but intuitive, spanning from guttural batteries that have the room trembling to lofty, atmospheric passages that are striking in their beauty; and then there are the points that encapsulate all of these and everything between. ‘Interachnid’ plays off on the contrast of Ben Verella’s bright, spry guitarwork and the combined might of Dana James and Hozoji Matheson-Margulis, a huge-sounding but tightly expressive rhythm unit; ‘Do Not Expose To The Burning Sun’ is a sprawling psych jam that works not only on the contrasting stones of its players but also on their voices, with each one markedly different but feeding equally into the sheer majesty of its twists and turns. Half an hour really doesn’t seem like enough time to appreciate everything that they’re capable of, and there’s a hope that a return visit will to be on the cards soon.
It was a sad day when Torche decided to hang up their spurs but at least they left behind a body of work that was near-flawless, effortlessly skipping between stadium rock grandeur and pummelling sonic weight. Still, the fact that Core. brought them back into the game so quickly was the little bit of light in the world that we didn’t know we needed. Opening with a thunderous take on Black Sabbath’s ‘Breakout’, their set is one that’s low on banter and big on hits, with a Meanderthal-heavy run that stretches from the power-pop energy of ‘Grenades’ to a grittier but no less exhilarating ‘Healer’ ramping the hype up early and all but exhausting the vocal cords of the old heads in attendance
Torche. Photo: Bruce Cowie
.Exhaustion is nowhere in sight for the band, with Steve Brooks attacking every lick with the heartfelt conviction of someone new to the game rather than one who had helped redefine it. In fact, all of the band look overjoyed to be back on stage together, and with a set that spans the entirety of their career, the feeling is one of celebration. ‘Charge Of The Brown Recluse’ still hits as hard as it ever did, a cacophony of riff worship and amplifier decimation that fills the room, while ‘Kicking’ remains an infuriating reminder that this is a band who deserved to be massive but never were. They had the tunes, they had the attitude and they had the skill; by all possible measures, they prove tonight that they still do.
For many, it’s the perfect end to the night, but for Nice N Sleazy’s crowd, the party hasn’t stopped just yet. The idea of afterparties has never been a hugely appealing one, primarily due to the unsavoury combination of late nights and partying, but when said shindig involves two of Scotland’s finest heavy acts, it feels like it would be rude not to pop your head in.
First up is Glasgow’s goth-doom-post-punk upstarts Cwfen who have already had the kind of year that few could dream of but no-one would begrudge. With a set lifted entirely from their recent debut, it’s an excellent showcase of their strength as musicians, songwriters and performers; ‘Rite’ hits hard, early, with Agnes Alder dominating the stage within moments, while ‘Reliks’ has the perfect mix of post-punk swagger and gothic gloom for the witching hour. Guy deNuit has the riffs locked down, tight but with just enough leeway for working around Alder’s stripped-back approach, while bassist Mary Thomas Baker is fascinating to watch as they snake their way across the floor. From the first song, the crowd are dancing and/or singing along to every word and with this level of devotion already evident, it’s clear that something special is going on here.
Another favourite from festivals past, Coffin Mulch don’t have quite the same packed attendance as their witchy predecessors, but those attendees that have stuck it out approach the show with enough energy to balance it all out. This is old-school death metal, right down to the faded denim and HM-2 pedals, and in Al Mabon they have the kind of frontman who thrives on exactly this level of chaos, barking his way through a half-hour of gravel-throated brutality and launching himself into the crowd almost as often as they find themselves being hurled onto the stage. Fun, perfectly executed and more energetic than it has any right to be at this time, this is how you end a night of pure metal in style.
Saturday
As always, Saturday kicks off at the Hug and Pint, this time with a few familiar faces in the form of Gout. Their performance last year was one of the weekend’s most welcome surprises, their earthy fusion of sludge, folk and hardcore marking them as a band to keep an eye out for. A year on, they still only have a handful of songs out in the wild yet they fill the room with beautiful, agonised noise – Ally Scott’s vocals dripping with misery as he vomits his soul out into the mic. A cover of Nine Inch Nails’ ‘Somewhat Damaged’ proves a worthy and well-executed risk, dialling up the volume and exchanging Reznor’s introspective pain with something rawer and more unfettered, and it’s another one of those performances where the time allotted just doesn’t feel like enough.
Gout. Photo: Bruce Cowie
Over at Woodside, it’s Shooting Daggers’ turn to surprise, their brash and immediate punk feeling both righteous and inspired. As they call for abusers in power to be held to account, for the cis men who have been hogging the floor to take a step back to let the pit open up for the female and queer attendees, and for everyone to simply let rip in the name of all that’s good, they feel like the embodiment of Core.’s inclusive and resolutely positive ethos. With Roman Candle’s Piper Ferrari tearing up the pit from the first song, their set is pure energy, and when they are later joined by Flinch’s Beth Black (making her the only person to have performed at all three Core. festivals) it cements them as one of the most celebratory bands of the day.
Shooting Daggers with Beth Black. Photo: Bruce Cowie
Something of a change of pace for today is Ayr’s Bellow Below, whose melodic and intuitive take on math-rock feels a million miles from the forthright aggression of the rest of the day. It’s been over a decade since they last played together yet they still sound brilliantly cohesive, a steady stream of twisting guitar-lines and hooks that feel like they shouldn’t work but just do, somehow.
Bellows Below. Photo: Bruce Cowie
It’s a very different story for Moni Jitchell, Glasgow’s finest and most chaotic noisecore duo, who have found themselves on the main stage. In the middle of the afternoon. It’s an odd place for an act more accustomed to sweaty basements at 1am but despite looking a bit stranded up there, they do what they do best and proceed to tear shit up. Grant Donaldson’s strength as a frontman is that he is inherently unpredictable even while being relatively stationary on stage, his voice and mannerisms the more overt outlets for the nervous tension that he seems to radiate, while David Scott is all rock-god bravado, rattling out searing bursts of 12-string mayhem like a Weegie Thurston Moore.
Moni Jitchell. Photo: Bruce Cowie
Following the last-minute cancellation of Oversize, some reshuffling has taken place and it’s up to local anti-fascist hardcore crew Resist to pick up the slack. Their sound owes as much to the slamming brutality of death metal as it does to punk’s sense of social conscience, and as the riffs continue to come fast and ridiculously hard a handful of punters react in the only rational way – with a sea of flailing fists and windmill kicks. It’s the first appearance of what will come to be known over the weekend as ‘the fuck-you horseshoe’, the area in the middle of the floor reserved for extravagant displays of stylised violence, but as each song invariably ends with random folk laughing and hugging, it becomes just another facet of Core’s philosophy of unity and community.
With Roman Candle now having been upgraded to the main hall, it feels a bit more in keeping with the fact that this is their first-ever show outside of the US. Alternating between sheer brutality, quiet introspection and finely crafted melody, they’re an exciting enough prospect in principle, but with the boundless energy of Piper Ferrari at their helm, they manage to exceed their potential. Throw in some relentless drumming, a few choice hooks and a splash of 90’s post-hardcore experimentalism and they become one of the day’s highlights.
Roman Candle. Photo: Bruce Cowie
This year’s award for ‘Best Kept Secret’ should really go to Ditz. Their odd, jittery and volatile art-punk somehow managing to be catchy and uncategorisable at the same time. Cuts like ‘Taxi Man’ are noise-rock gold, Caleb Remnant’s bass shaking the room as Cal Francis roams between stage and floor, usually find the latter to be the most comfortable for them to stride, bellow and mingle as needs must. There’s a taut balance between chaos and rigid precision that they seem to straddle effortlessly, and as the band wind down, leaving heads bobbing and light fixtures swinging, there are at least a few impressed punters within earshot wondering when they might be coming back.
Ditz. Photo: Bruce Cowie
Given the reaction to Pest Control as soon as they walk out onto the stage, it feels like maybe they should be the headliners tonight. After all, it has been a hell of a year for them so it’s hardly surprising that the place is packed and fists are swinging by the time they hit their first finger-mangling solo of many. It’s a masterclass in crossover thrash, from Ben Jones’ relentless drumming to how easily Leah Massey-Hay is able to work the crowd, exuding the kind of aggressive charm that most take decades in the game to achieve. ‘The Great Deceiver’ throws some swaggering groove into the mix, but it’s when they harness the immediacy of ‘Don’t Test The Pest’ that they operate at peak metal efficiency.
Pest Control. Photo: Bruce Cowie
Pest Control. Photo: Bruce Cowie
Maybe it’s a case of metal fatigue, but for all that Cruelty have their crushing, breakdown-heavy metalcore locked down they come across as a bit static in comparison to what just transpired. The riffs are hard and heavy, a steady stream of mid-tempo brutality with just the right level of looseness to get a good pit or fifteen going, and there’s no denying that they are exceptional at what they do, but as the set presses on, the need for a bit more variety does start to rear its ugly head.
And now it’s time for the return of Boston’s finest (no, not them, that’s tomorrow night). Tonight, it’s all about Defeater, whose length of time in the game has given them an elder-statesmen status that seems appropriate for a band that always stayed true to its roots. This is blue-collar hardcore with heart, every syllable from Derek Archambault delivered with a sincerity that can be felt in the farthest corners of the room. ‘The Worst Of Fates’ sounds massive, ‘Cowardice’ has half of the room bellowing along to Archambault with the conviction of people who have spent decades with this band in their hearts, and in ‘The Red, White And Blues’ they have the perfect closer, a blunt burst of righteous energy that unites the room in one final, sweaty crush of bodies and limbs.
Defeater. Photo: Bruce Cowie
Sunday
Having Mrs Frighthouse up first isn’t so much being eased into the day as it is being fed into it through a rusty sieve. The Glasgow duo have made a name for themselves with the uncompromising nature of both their live performances and their music, yet descriptions really defy the extraordinary nature of their work. This is industrial noise at its most immediate and perhaps at its most political, harsh pulses of static throbbing and beating over fractured melodies as Luna and Carys Frighthouse trade unpleasantries. While the contrast between Carys’ rich, crystalline alto and Luna’s more guttural, pained ululations is striking as it mirrors the duality of their own sound, it’s when both are working in concert to dredge up their rage and disgust that the performance becomes genuinely harrowing. Coupled with footage of surgery and body modification, the experience is both uncomfortable and truly jaw-dropping, an elegy to the best and worst that humanity can offer.
Belgrove are a breath of fresh air by contrast, even if their tunes aren’t exactly easy listening. Part post-hardcore, part melodic metal, their whole vibe screams ‘early 00’s Metal Hammer sampler’ in the best possible way. Even the fact that both of their guitarists today are temporary stand-ins does little to quell how focused they are, expertly balancing chunky riffs and the odd, glorious hook like seasoned veterans.
Belgrove. Photo: Bruce Cowie
When Violencia let rip without a word of warning or build-up, it’s clear that they aim to live up to their name. This is power-violence executed with style, precision and sheer ferocity, stripping back everything superfluous to create a lean, mean screaming machine. In keeping with established power-violence tradition, they make it through more songs than we can count; yet there’s a fair amount of variety in what they do, even if some commonalities throughout their set do remain (mainly vocalist Gobi’s relentlessly hostile approach to her craft and a truly filthy bass tone).
Violencia. Photo: Bruce Cowie
There will always be something sublimely surreal about watching Ashenspire at work. Their weirdness isn’t an affectation; it’s something so intertwined with their oblique take on black metal that if one component were to slip there’s a sense that the whole thing would come tumbling down. They inject a sense of theatricality that feels miles away from black metal’s usual none-more-evil posturing, drama baked into every riff and syllable; and even if saxophones in metal are old hat these days, Dean Garrity makes it look and sound otherworldly, turning ‘The Law Of Asbestos’ into a woozy downward-spiral of paranoia, gloom and, eventually, madness.
Ashenspire. Photo: Bruce Cowie
Yet another Core. alumnus, Ukrainian/German post-BM outfit Machukha feel much more at home at the Hug than they did in the airy and brightly lit room they occupied last year. Their blackened assault is almost unrelenting and in this tiny space, there is nowhere for that energy to be dissipated. Instead, vocalist Natalia Androsova paces the tiny stage like a caged tiger, her cries being wrung out of her body rather than projected. ‘Inodi padaye snih tak lahidno krizʹ sosnovu khvoyu’ is an obvious standout, Androsova’s voice showing a tenderness and range that sounds miles from her usual bestial self; and by the time it reaches its ultimate climax, she looks just as drained and exhausted as we all are.
Ashenspire. Photo: Bruce Cowie
If there’s one thing that can be said about Agriculture’s ‘ecstatic black metal’, it’s that in person there is much more emphasis on the ecstatic part. Sure, there are plenty of moments that hark back to more orthodox takes on the genre, mainly the piercing screech of Dan Meyer and Kern Haug’s tight but slightly unhinged blastbeats, but as a band they radiate such joy and love for the craft that the cliches don’t get a look in. New offering ‘Bodhidharma’ is a straightforward assault on the senses, but even in that are moments of softness and the kind of exemplary musicianship that really belongs in a packed stadium; and when they sign off on an extended instrumental jam that has all four going off on their own wild and wonderfully expressive tangents, smiles plastered across their faces, they become something uncategorisable.
For a final visit to The Hug, there aren’t many bands that rival Beneath A Steel Sky and their alternately majestic and pummelling post-rock. While their three-guitar approach seems tailor made for walls of noise and deafening volume, an aspect that is only furthered by Greg Armstrong’s hoarse bellows that he seemingly pours every ounce of emotion that he can dredge up into, what sets them apart from so many also-rans is there’s something quiet and melancholic about them. The triple-guitar approach works as it allows them to layer delicate melodies, one atop the other, and when they do switch into overdrive, the effect is mesmerising and cathartic in equal measure.
Agriculture. Photo: Bruce Cowie
If Beneath A Steel Sky’s strength lies in the subtle push-and-pull of crushing weight and shimmering delicacy, the same cannot be said of Frontierer, a band allergic to the very idea of restraint. Everything is geared towards confrontation, the riffs skewed and jerky as they are launched towards the crowd like an errant artillery shell. Chad Kapper is on fine form, restlessly pacing the stage as he strives to somehow out-harsh what his bandmates are up to; and as his cohorts either pinball around the pit, are dragged down from speaker stacks by security who look like they signed up for anything but this, or simply strive to make the most uncompromising noise that physically can, even the punters who weren’t right in the fray are feeling a bit raw by the set’s end.
Frontierer. Photo: Bruce Cowie
The whiplash incurred in moving from that to Jo Quail’s quiet, measured intensity is striking, but to call her performance any less absorbing would be to do her and her music a great disservice. Stood between two twisting spirals of metal that projects the light into beautiful swirls of icy blue light on the ceiling, there’s a sense of wonder that feeds into Quail’s stirring compositions. ‘Butterfly Dance’ starts off unassuming enough, but as she builds layers of melody and percussion little by little, it becomes something that consumes the room in barely perceptible increments. Her balance of technique and emotion, and of power and restraint, is often breathtaking; and even though she doesn’t have quite as much time to weave her spell as she typically does, everyone in the room still got to feel like they were part of something genuinely exquisite.
All that’s left is for the eternally unclassifiable Cave In to celebrate 25 years of maybe their most audacious record, Jupiter, and it really drives home how weird an album it always was. From the arena-toppling scale of the title track to the grimy heft of ‘Big Riff’ and the meandering, hazy bliss of ‘New Moon’, it strove to have everything and somehow made it sound bloody brilliant. Tonight, though, it bristles with a newfound energy and immediacy, Nate Newton throwing his weight behind the low end from the outset; in contrast, Steven Brodsky is initially more restrained, only really letting loose and visibly enjoying himself at the set’s midway point. A surprise rendition of Led Zeppelin’s ‘Dazed and Confused’ makes a welcome appearance, but it’s a heartfelt ‘Requiem’ that stuns the room, Brodsky’s voice alternating between cut-glass fragility and rock star bravado as John Robert-Conners works the kit with a kind of primal urgency. It’s a fitting sign-off for the festival, one of those performances that leaves you thinking, “They really ought to make a live album out of this”. 2026’s line-up will have a lot to live up to.
Cave In. Photo: Bruce Cowie
