As 1,500 people call his band’s name – which serves, after all, as its own readymade chant – Pigs Pigsmuch good, as a ridiculously early start time means their masked psychedelic soundscapes play to a largely empty room. This is rectified by the time unleash their raucous and jubilant queer-punk on a wholly embracing audience and, as take over, the Ritz is rammed. If Freddie Mercury and the Jesus Lizard’s David Yow had a lovechild and left it to grow up feral in the bins behind Poundland, it might have Matthew Baty’s visceral and slightly exhausting presence. Behind him the band crank out the filthiest stoner metal riffs with a raw punk edge and ritualistic headfucks of the highest order. It’s gnarled, noisy, beautifully ugly and utterly exhilarating. Pig out on this band as much as you can.
