For context, this show takes place during the newest unbearable heatwave sweeping the UK, because that’s just something we have now, apparently. It’s in Manchester’s Victoria Warehouse, too, which doesn’t inspire much confidence in the idea of respite. It’s already no one’s favourite venue for a multitude of reasons—it’s ugly; it’s miles away from anywhere; its sound and lighting quality is comically hit-or-miss—but it takes a heat this close and clammy to recognise how far that dislike can go. Ironic how a venue sponsored by O2 can have not one bit of oxygen in it.
Nevertheless, trivial matters like threat-to-life temperatures are of little concern to the members of the Muri Naysh out in full force. It’s a testament to how popular Bilmuri have become, even compared to what felt so ironclad on AMERICAN MOTOR SPORTS. KINDA HARD has only blossomed in the same way as its predecessor, growing into a juggernaut of pop-country / alt-metal entertainment value. Sophistication be damned; it steamrolls when it wants to, which is very regularly indeed. And with as much of a ringmaster as Johnny Franck is (a singular entity among alt-metal’s too-dour landscape), the concentrated appeal of Bilmuri is all too easy to see, and easier still to buy into.
There’s the matter of what’s holding them back today specifically, though, and Thornhill aren’t getting away unscathed either. They’re blessed with some good ol’ Viccy Warehouse razzle-dazzle, i.e. totally ungenerous lights (or a lack thereof), and a sound mix that puts all its eggs in the basket of Nick Sjogren’s ribcage-rattling bass. To be fair, you get some good returns from that, at least. Punishing nu-metalcore breakdowns and a fat slab of groove fare well, and Thornhill have enough of those to get by. But then you get to the clipped wings of frontman Jacob Charlton, who can only soar to his desired height in fits and spurts. The atmosphere of Mercia is retained, and nerv’s climactic scream ensures a show-stopping moment is still on the cards. Otherwise, this is Thornhill trying their best to muddle through, occasionally arriving at what’s made them alt-metal’s current shining lights, but missing a lot, too.
Still, at least they have the benefit of survivable conditions on their side. There’s actually some residual air making its way around the venue during Thornhill’s set, with no such fortunes shared by Bilmuri. To stress, they themselves are excellent performers and show that off in spades. But as an entire experience, it winds up as one of the most uncomfortable that this writer has ever been subjected to. There’s such an extreme closeness in the heat of the room, with no space for reprieve other than outside of the show space entirely. Again, not Bilmuri’s fault in the slightest, but there’s no way to overlook the thick, black mark left on the whole show.
Fortunately, the exuberance of Bilmuri can pull back a lot when it needs to. They’re an act basically founded on that very notion, now with an expanded lineup to flank Franck as visual and (sometimes) sonic spice. It sure would be nice if the new banjo player could break through tonight’s impregnable sound system, but that’s just par for the course, isn’t it? Even as Josh Manuel’s drums and Aino Muruaishi’s bass are given the lion’s share of musical real estate, the hooks of these songs are ironclad enough to leap out effortlessly.
Bear in mind, too, the bulk of these are from the last two albums of a 15-release discography, as if it didn’t feel concentrated enough already. Perhaps, then, the sole bugbear to identify is how the mid-set patch of old stuff (the “OG crankin’ music,” in Franck’s words) just don’t have the same insane grip as what’s come recently. Thus, instead of a full run of wall-to-wall bangers, you’ve got two mini versions of that, bisected by a corridor of slightly-less-banging-but-banging-nonetheless works.
When Bilmuri fully tap into that apex momentum, there’s no beating them. It’s a display of showmanship that’d be considered borderline gauche in their scene these days, with Franck as the big, jocular mainman, and saxophonist Gabi Rose now as full second-in-command. She’s been a fan-favourite addition to the fold for a long time, and that’s only become a bigger part of the Bilmuri live enterprise. She’s the first to arrive onstage for a quick but potent sax rip, setting the stage for the calamitous KINDA HARD intro that’s such a foolproof hype-builder live. Further to Rose’s status as an utterly killer find, she’s brought up on co-vocals to give BLINDSIDED and BACK, THEN the sharpest shock of pop appeal possible. Seriously, the Bilmuri fold would feel incomplete without her.
Across the board, Bilmuri have hit a stride that never stops, and shows no sign of doing so, either. Even with how much of a backseat the seriousness of this all takes (Franck’s first spoken utterance is a lead-in to SHYT FYST about wiping his arse), it comes with the territory at this point. This is an act designed to invoke the biggest, broadest, most communal feelings of expression that music has to offer, and there’s no way to say they don’t succeed. HARD2TELL; WHERE TO FIND ME; WORST PART OF YOU; ALWAYS LET YOU DOWN; BETTER HELL (Thicc boi); all are songs flushed with the exact same strain of bitterness and dejection, but ratcheted up to stratospheric levels at all times. That’s what Bilmuri are all about, and still managing to get there through such oppressive conditions is a feat unto itself.
Words by Luke Nuttall
Photos by Will Robinson (Instagram)
