Aggressive Charisma, Applied Anthropology & White Cowboy Boots
Friday night in Billstedt began with basil lemonade that somehow tasted of pesto and ended with me asking a drummer for a picture of his white cowboy boots.
In between, a cybernetic priestess invaded personal space, fed red liquid to willing strangers with a pipette and somehow turned Bambi galore into what I can only describe as a psychedelic glam cult meeting.
I had a fantastic time.
The Hypothesis
Earlier this year, I spent a respectable amount of time with Mondo Tomorrow, the seventh studio album by Australian psychedelic rock outfit The Neptune Power Federation. I reviewed it for Stormbringer, having previously heard absolutely nothing by them, which felt like a personal administrative failure once I realised how much material they had already put into the world.
I liked the album. I did not love it.
The opening stretch? Great fun. Hooks. Riffs. Punk urgency. Hammond organ. Slightly unhinged 70s rock energy. At times so theatrical I found myself mentally drifting somewhere between Grease, Rocky Horror and a dystopian fever dream. But it didn't quite survive my attention span.
Somewhere around the second half, the whole thing began to blur into one long haze of retro swagger, rebellion and increasingly familiar ideas. Perfectly enjoyable in smaller doses. Less convincing when consumed all at once.
And yet.
The band lodged itself firmly somewhere in the back of my brain for one very obvious reason: absolutely nothing about The Neptune Power Federation looked like it was meant to be experienced sitting politely at home with headphones on.
This felt suspiciously like the sort of band where the outfits, stage personas and sheer commitment to the bit would end up carrying half the emotional weight. The sort of band you suspect probably makes infinitely more sense once physically occupying a room.
So when a Friday night show at Bambi galore appeared, I considered it less a gig and more an opportunity to test a working theory.
Minus Mountain (Or: Why My Brain Insists on Tolkien)
So off to Billstedt it was again.
This day’s adventure included a visit to a Turkish restaurant with a mosque in the basement and basil lemonade that somehow tasted suspiciously of greasy pesto. I absolutely needed an Astra afterwards to wash this down again.
Doors were at eight and the opening act Minus Mountain was meant to start at half past. I genuinely have to be careful to get the band name right because somehow—and for reasons that make absolutely no sense—Minus Mountain keeps turning into Minus Morgul in my head.
Too many Lord of the Rings podcasts.
Anyhow.
Minus Mountain are from Lübeck and label themselves Doom/Sludge/Progressive Metal. I had listened to their self-titled debut on the drive to Hamburg and was… well. Quite bored, if I am honest.
I was missing pressure. Doom. Heaviness. Something. So expectations were, let’s say, moderate.
Immediate plus points though for the stage setting.
The vintage living room fringe floor lamp. Framed pictures balanced on orange amps. It had vibes. Strong ones. I loved it immediately.
The band came on stage on time and sound simply started happening. They barely had their earpieces in. Somebody’s "hold it for a moment" into the mic was thoroughly ignored while instruments were strapped on at record speed and in-ears fumbled into place. But they pulled it off.
Live, the music clicked into place for me. Suddenly there was doom. Suddenly there was sludge. Enough grit and pressure to create a genuinely dense atmosphere—and all of it delivered with this very northern German, entirely unpretentious way of carrying yourself that somehow made the whole thing weirdly charming.
Twenty Minutes to Build a Cult
Minus Mountain played roughly fifty minutes, which left exactly twenty for a complete changeover before The Neptune Power Federation were meant to start. They made it.
With mounting excitement, I watched increasingly bizarre objects appear on stage: a kalimba, some kind of ritualistic horn, a glass jar filled with mysterious red liquid and, naturally, a pipette. Oh this was going to be good.
The band started playing, but no Screaming Loz.
I started scanning the room for her entrance, because that woman did not strike me as somebody likely to simply walk onto stage like a normal person. And indeed, she did not arrive via stage stairs. No. At some point I spotted an illuminated headpiece threading through the audience, which parted for her like the Red Sea.
Aggressive Charisma & Personal Space Violations
Screaming Loz entered the room and immediately made it clear that conventional boundaries were not going to feature heavily in the evening. She stared directly into people’s faces. Reached out. Touched cheeks. Invaded personal space with frankly alarming confidence.
By the time she reached the stage, she had already committed to what I can only describe as a full weird hug-kiss situation with a woman in the crowd.
Aggressive charisma. That is the phrase.
And somehow, everyone simply accepted this as perfectly reasonable.
That was the thing: none of it felt like somebody trying very hard to be theatrical. It felt oddly authentic, as though she had woken up that morning and genuinely decided: tonight I am an interdimensional techno-priestess. And everyone collectively agreed.
Needless to say, I had the time of my life photographing this. The costume. The facial theatre. The drama. The complete and utter refusal to dial anything down.
This was exactly the sort of thing me and my camera had hoped for.
Social Studies & White Cowboy Boots
But it was not only Screaming Loz carrying the evening, even if she very much remained the eye of the storm. The whole band sounded fantastic.
And this is where my working theory proved painfully correct: The Neptune Power Federation are simply a live band.
Back when reviewing Mondo Tomorrow, I found the album difficult to sit through in one go. Somewhere along the line, the tension slipped.
Live?
Problem solved. Live, they kept the tension. The music suddenly pushed exactly the button it was supposed to push.
And before I could help myself, I found myself increasingly distracted by drummer River Sticks.
Partly because he played with infectious joy.
Partly because he was wearing immaculate white cowboy boots for reasons I still cannot explain.
And those absolutely broke me.
You know me by now. There is always one thing I latch onto.
That evening?
The boots.
Which somehow managed to steal attention from the Imperial Priestess, who by this point had begun feeding red liquid to willing men in the front row via pipette.
Do we have to discuss this?
No.
Let me simply state for the record: men will drink absolutely anything if confidently administered by a woman with sufficient theatrical conviction. No hesitation. No visible concern. Just immediate acceptance of the situation.
By Now, I’m No Longer Afraid to Ask
The crowd absolutely loved this gig.
I’ve been to Bambi galore a couple of times now, but this felt different. By the time the band wrapped up, people were shouting for more with genuine conviction. We got a Quiet Riot detour in the form of Metal Health (Bang Your Head) and still the encore chants refused to die down afterwards.
People wanted more.
They did not get it.
After roughly an hour and a very enjoyable cut through the band’s discography—with a healthy amount of Mondo Tomorrow in the mix—things eventually wrapped up.
The band drifted towards the merch table, which is where I fully accepted that dignity had left the building.
By now, I'm no longer afraid to just ask.
I walked straight up to drummer River Sticks to inform him that I loved his white cowboy boots.
Yes.
I did that.
And yes, I absolutely asked for a picture.
Not of us.
Of our feet.
Obviously.
I escaped back into the still balmy night feeling oddly elated.
This had been fun. Really fun. Just unapologetically good fun.
Maybe I should do more psychedelic 70s rock.
In what feels like a perfectly logical development, I am currently writing this while listening to Screaming Lord Sutch.
Because obviously.
