By the time Mission Of Burma take to the stage, they’re already thirty minutes behind schedule. Frustratingly, they’re then forced to spend the next fifteen minutes or so undertaking what is in effect a second sound-check (the PA system - perhaps in a state of mortification over the sonic sodomising it was about to endure - having blown a fuse minutes before the performance was due to commence), and this gig has all the appearances of being a casualty of technical misfortune.
Then, suddenly, drummer Peter Prescott counts in his colleagues Roger Miller (guitar/vocals) and Clint Conley (bass), and the group embark on a 90-minute odyssey that at times is almost shocking in its intensity. The first half-hour, in particular, practically peels the paint off the walls; Conley and Prescott provide a relentless surge of thumping rhythmic pandemonium, whilst Miller coaxes wave after wave of skull-shattering distortion from his guitar (a long-term sufferer of tinnitus, it’s no wonder he’s these days forced to don industrial-style ear shields).
But it’s not all Panzer division-like aural bombardment - in an impressive display of stylistic diversification, mid-way through the gig they slow the pace with a couple of show-stopping down-tempo numbers. Conley assumes vocal duties for a beautifully ragged, plaintive ballad, whilst the following track sees Shellac bassist Bob Weston (stationed behind us at the mixing desk), drop a sprinkling of spacey effects into a reverb-heavy, stoner rock epic (think ‘Comfortably Numb’-era Floyd go hardcore).
Gradually, they up the tempo once again, and we’re treated to a suitably uproarious finale courtesy of an absolutely scorching take on the classic ‘That’s When I Reach For My Revolver’. It would appear that John, Paul, George and Ringo got it absolutely spot-on - happiness is indeed a warm gun.