The Haunt, Brighton
There's something remarkable about the adulation that greets the unassuming figure of Dylan Carlson as he takes the stage. Earth were once bit-players in the grim saga of grunge: Carlson was better known as Kurt Cobain's friend than for the agonisingly slow, deconstructed metal that filled Earth's albums. Bizarrely, an 11-year sabbatical, spurred by Carlson's drug problems, appeared to work in their favour. Earth took on a faintly mythic aura, as bands inspired by their doom drone sound rushed into the void created by their absence. When they returned, it was as a markedly different entity – no faster or more yielding, but less distorted, the influence of country and British folk-rock hovering in the distance – and to a far greater degree of acclaim than before.
In fact, hovering in the distance is what Earth's music appears to spend most of tonight's gig doing: its crawling pace and ominous, repetitive chord sequences seem to be glowering at you from afar. Live, their sound is more elliptical and arid and hard to pin down than ever: anyone turning up expecting the radio-friendly commerciality found on album tracks such as Omens and Portents II: Carrion Crow or Descent to the Zenith is likely to go home sorely disappointed.
There are moments of real beauty and power: The Rakehell's sludgy funk, the colliding cello and guitar of The Corascene Dog. But something – perhaps a lack of volume, or something about the venue, a club unsuited to music this exploratory and opaque – stops it engaging you entirely: it doesn't feel as hypnotic or entrancing as it should. Still, you are left in no doubt of Earth's uniqueness. "This is the shortest song you'll ever hear us play and the fastest song you'll ever hear us play," offers Carlson, before launching into something that proceeds at the same zippy pace as severe congestion on the M11, his rules clearly different to everyone else's.