My first day of Desertfest London 2026 is – like most people’s, I’m sure – bookended by feedback. The piercing whine emanating from The Underworld’s backline of colossal Orange stacks, to be precise, and in both cases foreshadowing an instalment of heinous doom. A whine that I can still hear hours after, despite having had my ear plugs wedged in tight; followed by a rumble, which travelled through the soles of my feet and up, along my entire body, rattling my bones.
In case you’re not aware, Desertfest is synonymous with doom, sludge, and especially creamy desert, psych, stoner rock/metal, so the rumble of Instar Sling, London’s hottest new power trio, is entirely in character. But Desertfest has been expanding its territory for a few years, and I charted its diversification in my coverage for Echoes & Dust in 2024 and 2025.
So, this year, only able to attend for two days (Saturday and Sunday), I ventured out on a mission to the atypical fringes of the fest – for journalism, for posterity, and for the proverbial shits and giggles. Finding myself at The Dev a lot, easily the best dive bar in London and the smallest venue of the fest, I largely replaced the breezy grooves of the California desert with bruising industrial, weird and putrid death metal, and incendiary mathcore. And, dearest gentle reader, it was glorious.
Back to Paul from Instar Sling letting his bass whine fill the crowded pit of The Underworld. The trio – hairy, largely shirtless, with socked feet direct to the grimy stage – are feeling that rumble up through their bodies too, of course. There’s a buzz around Instar Sling as, while they’ve only been together a year – and are launching their debut album at this show – they feature some serious underground pedigree, with experience in bands like Ghold and Test Dept. This is scathing, visceral music that virtually drags the optimism and hope out from your orifices and obliterates all else with its overwhelming heaviness. The comparisons to Khanate and Burning Witch come easily, especially in Paul’s vocals which have that wonderful throaty, sibilant, agonised quality we all know and love.
Drummer Cleaver chimes a handbell dramatically midway through, during a lull between songs, with that Orange Amphenge still humming ominously, providing a kind of brassy palette cleanser.
Instar Sling. Photo: Sam Huddleston
Introducing some interesting rhythmic twists and turns to their monolithic, distortion-encrusted riffs, Instar Sling may not break the mould, but nonetheless they distinguish themselves from endless generic doomers by the sheer quality of all aspects of their sound, and the way they all throw themselves into the performance. Starting out with energy and power, their set kind of lopes and meanders itself into a trudging, unwinding descent – and few seem quite ready to rush off to catch the next band after that feedback finally wanes, standing around in the pit looking pretty gobsmacked.
Strolling down the high street to The Roundhouse – the fest’s largest venue at 3000 capacity – London-based thrash-punks Inhuman Nature pick up the pace considerably with frantic Slayer-like riffs, rough barking vocals, and insatiable stage energy. The five-piece look like they all belong in different bands – punk guy, metal guy, stoner guy – but found the centre of the Venn diagram.
Inhuman Nature. Photo: Sam Huddleston
It’s not common to hear political statements at Desertfest. “Fuck Israel,” vocalist Christopher shouts, wearing a kufiya, amidst a string of other Fuck You’s, the details of which I don’t need to hear to understand. Maybe the crowd don’t hear it so well either as the response could have been a bit heartier, although there are still plenty who approve. If some find it a bit early in the evening for politics, the mosh is whipping up nicely, as Inhuman Nature deliver a punchy and heartfelt performance, clearly jazzed to be playing such a large venue.
From the circular heights of The Roundhouse, back down the road to The Dev: as rough and ready as it is beautiful. And so many of the best bands this year were here, on the smallest stage. Like Smouldering Tomb, for example, formed in Brighton, UK, in early 2025. Again, there’s a buzz around them and plenty of folks know to get her early for a good spot. It’s claustrophobically mobbed, full front to back, and with a queue stretching around the corner outside. I can’t actually get close enough to see them, mind, but I don’t really need to; you can feel the energy.
Queuing for The Dev. Photo: Sam Huddleston
Smouldering Tomb. Photo: Jessi Lotti
It’s that weird, unpredictable brand of death metal that really gets under your skin, you know? With loose and unhinged melodic lead harmonies from Sam Chase (Sea Bastard, Grave Lines), furious intense, headbanging moments, alternated with eerie quiet moments, and deranged growls from vocalist Marianne, these folks have this crowd tumbling over themselves to stay at the front. And I’m sure people will be taking about this one for a while afterwards.
Next, it’s squeezing into The Black Heart for some more traditional Desertfest fare: WAXY. This is real desert rock, straight from Palm Desert, California: and it shows. I’m immediately hearing early QOTSA here specifically, especially in the warm, fuzzy guitar tone, amazing lead sound, and general riff patterns. Frontman Robbie has a really strong voice, capable of smooth, mellowness as well as grit and weight. They play ‘Begging for More’, the only song I recognise, and for a few moments, I feel like I’m at a desert generator party with the California sun shining on my face.
WAXY. Photo: Jessi Lotti
Khost are definitely not here to tell us about life in the desert: This industrial metal duo from Birmingham have clearly never seen the sun. As regular touring partners of Godflesh, these guys conjure up unrelentingly-bleak, dystopian hellscapes from mammoth grinding riffs and tormentingly cold machine beats. It’s all mangled, pitched-down vocals, and harsh ambience, produced by a range of gadgets and pedals that look less like musical equipment and more like something you’d use to check for wiring before nailing a picture to your wall. They strike me as an unusual addition to DF at the time, although I now recall that Godflesh themselves headlined a couple of years ago, so many here are probably used to the contrast.
Khost. Photo: Tim Bugbee
Not many performers – whichever genre – can get away with wearing hiking gear onstage, with Andy clad in a two-piece waterproof outfit, with peaked cap built into the hood. But you can in industrial, where such garb seems practical for the late-stage-capitalist, climate-change-fuelled apocalypse that their music describes.
I’m right at the front of the stage, transfixed by the four laptops they’ve brought with them, positioned on amps and on the floor. Haunted museum footage. Weird books in archives. Statues, dolls’ faces, watches, clocks, windows, rain, darkness, glass shining, sparkling, smashing, smashing, smashing, smashing. . .
Holy shit! I was not ready for Deaf Club, who not-so-much burst or exploded, but ejaculated, figuratively onto The Underworld stage, in a painful bolt of frenzied, splintered, Californian hardcore punk. Justin Pearson (The Locust, Dead Cross) is as sharp and angular as his music, and definitely a frontman as well as a vocalist. With black leather jacket and slicked-back hair, he brings his own confrontational swaggering energy and intensity, whether prowling the stage, climbing the pillars by way of the kick drum, leaning out into the crowd, or leaping pit-wards and mingling boisterously.
Justin Pearson, Deaf Club. Photo: Tim Bugbee
Blastbeats rule OK in Deaf Club, and they’re so loud it’s almost painful. While the guitarist is teasing the most insane whirring, jagged dissonances out of his instrument one minute, then whammy-barring out B-movie raygun pips the next, I realise that it’s these space-opera noises that pull us back into trad DF territory. And Deaf Club were such a sensory overload that, frankly, I hoped that my choice at The Dev would follow it with something chill. Right well, next up is – checks notes – Liquid Shit. Hmm. . .
Spoiler alert: Liquid Shit are not a stoner rock band and have nothing to do with the desert. They’re from London actually, or perhaps the Thames to be more specific. In case it wasn’t obvious, this is death metal/grind of a high calibre. And it’s not just a clever name: this is gloopy, grotty, dirty, repugnant. . . choose your adjective. Amongst all the high-speed dirt, though, are those loose, woozy interludes, where the dancing becomes freer and the band turn inwards, heads down. Then there’s a saxophone guy, adding extra layers of grating dissonance and weirdness. . .
Liquid Shit. Photo: Sam Huddleston
. . .and I follow the ooze along Camden High Street, emerging from the sewer and back into The Underworld for the equally un-Googleable -16-. Hailing from LA, -16- bookend my first day with a gargantuan wailing of feedback from the same stack of amps that opened it. And they play some of the best sludge I’ve heard in a while, with shades of EyeHateGod and Melvins, but with a catchy, grungier quality. They’ve got the dirty groove alright, nicely contrasted with no-nonsense chugging and, yes, plenty of those slow heavy riffs that come back slower and heavier [cue stank face]. -16- might not have been the official headliners, but they made the perfect conclusion to my un-orthodox first day.
-16-. Photo: Tim Bugbee
Sunday begins with the dusty twang of Teiger’s new single ‘Bloodwork’, bringing a different kind of desert rock to their Desertfest debut. Teiger are a London-based trio whose melodic, proggish, alt-metal is rapidly gaining in popularity. I’ve seen them several times now, and it’s exciting see them getting better, heavier, and more unique, with every show.
Teiger are heavy, but not in a typical Desertfest Amphenge of Doom kind of a way, so I’m pleased to see The Black Heart looking busy at this relatively early time in the afternoon. Instead, the heaviness in their sound comes from the inter-play of Jon’s rippling drums and Phil’s intricate bass lines, and the general timbre of Talie’s voice, lyrics, and guitar style. Clearly excited to appear at Desertfest for the first time, Teiger play some bangers from their self-titled debut album, like ‘The Law of Diminishing Returns’ (long, complex, rich) and ‘Hydra’ (hooky, punchy, punky). And of course, their wonderful cover of Portishead’s ‘Glory box’ (one of the all-time best songs), adding extra layers of eeriness to the track’s already off-kilter mood. There’s clearly a lot of fans here already, grooving and singing along, while I hear others chatting excitedly about their new discovery afterwards.
Teiger. Photo: Tim Bugbee
But it’s the newer tracks that excite me the most. ‘Bloodwork’ – due to drop next month and featuring the superlative cello-work of Jo Quail no less! – is sure to make waves amongst the dunes, while I’m captivated by the atmosphere of ‘Mist’, which floats and trails exactly as its title suggests. There’s a moment as Talie drops off the stage, cooly meeting the eyes of her audience, when you can feel this changed up from a good show into a great one.
Talie Rose Eigeland, Teiger. Photo: Tim Bugbee
Similarly, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen – and reviewed – Cambridge post-metaller’s The Grey, but I had to catch some of their Desertfest set: it’s the perfect place. These guys always play from the heart, so I was pleased to see The Underworld crowd matching their energy, if not quite their intensity. It’s a bold move to be an instrumental (mostly) band, and what I love about The Grey is that each long track truly tells a sonic story, which you know is going somewhere. It doesn’t need words to identify the feelings it produces. This is progressive, intelligent, music that’s chock full of emotion – joy, sorrow, grief, despair, ennui, love – delivered with unabashed sincerity and furious passion, and narrated by massive, rolling riffs.
The Grey. Photo: Sam Huddleston
And that’s also a pretty fitting description for Kannabinoid, from Estonia, another gem from The Dev stage, who combine post-metallic riff cycles, the scathing delivery of sludge, and the best parts of nu-metal. Even if I could discern or understand the lyrics (sung in Estonian, presumably, along with the rest of their album’s text), this is all about mood and atmosphere, as well as super low-tuned grinding. If you imagine Ufomammut playing a longer, and vastly trippier version of Sepultura’s ‘Rattamahatta’, you won’t be far off. Again, it’s all about the sonic atmosphere – full of brooding menace here – not just the weighty riffs. Highly recommended; I’ll be eagerly awaiting their return.
Kannabinoid. Photo: Tim Bugbee
But, if it’s raw meaty riffs you’re after, you need look no further than Texas’s The Sword. Heavy metal works well at the Roundhouse. The Sword may not have brought the insane Amphenge used by the Bathory tribute which headlined Incineration Festival earlier in the year (twelve Marshall stacks to be precise), but they have a fearsome backline none the less. I first heard The Sword’s awesome debut album Age of Winters (2006) about ten years ago, so it was great to finally hear their catchy brand of heavy metal and proto-doom live tonight. The Sword are underrated, in my humble opinion, matching the slippery, groove riffs of Sleep on tracks like ‘Barael’s Blade’. They’re super tight, fluidly moving between sub-generic touches, with a slightly eerie vocal harmony affect as standard, and a killer bass tone.
The Sword. Photo: Jessi Lotti.
Metal’s generally best when it’s got groove, and this Sword doesn’t so much swipe or cut you as make you boogie. So, it’s perfect that they’re preceding Maryland’s finest weirdo-rockers Clutch tonight, because there’s a band who sure knows how to bring the heavy boogie.
Neil Fallon, Clutch. Photo: Jessie Lotti
While I’ve enjoyed something of an alt-Desertfest this year, it feels perfect to conclude with something more traditional – something guaranteed to bring a good time. Clutch sure love The Roundhouse; I saw them here only half a year ago, and it seems to be the only London venue they play these days. Neil Fallon, with his odd confidence and charisma, does a good job of filling the stage even when he’s not singing. Fallon can even whack a cowbell and still look debonair.
By the time he wanders coolly onto the stage, we’re very much in the mood to dance, drink, and mosh to classics like ‘Earth Rocker’ and an extended ‘Spacegrass’. Most tracks are taken from their latest album Blast Tyrant tonight – with a smattering from their other eleven albums! While it’s always exciting to hear classic Clutch, it really doesn’t matter which songs they play; they don’t have a dud record in their oeuvre, and you can’t say that of many bands.
Neil Fallon, Clutch. Photo: Jessie Lotti
Everything about Clutch is utterly infectious, ludicrously groovy, and highly singular in its surreal charm. And this Roundhouse show, closing Desertfest 2026, proves that this band – and this entire festival – are amongst the very best around.
If you’re tired of Clutch or Desertfest or riffs then, dearest gentle reader, you’re tired of life. . .
Photo: Jessie Lottie
Header Photo: Tim Bugbee
