It’s a very strange, rare and ineffable feeling when, through thick swathes of fluorescent pink and purple fog that would give The Sisters of Mercy a run for their money, you witness your teenage years walking directly towards you while staring directly into your soul. It’s a slow, understated walk, almost as if by a ghost; perhaps a familiar haunting by beloved lost childhood friend, like a welcome hug from the beyond by a loved one to tell you all is well, that they are still here watching over you – and yet that walk holds so much awe and power. So fitting is it he would emerge under the ever-present foreboding light of the Heartagram – now a glorious full moon emitting neon lunar beams in our sonic séance of heroes past. HIM may tragically be long dead, but like all of the best vampires, it seems Ville Valo is eternal.
And so begins our ritual with the ethereal, mournful wails of Icelandic coven, Kaelan Mikla, to summon the headline acts from their slumber. Consisting of only keys, bass and stunning vocal presence, the all-female trio seem caught in between worlds of the cinematic Nordic vibes of Heilung and the deepest recesses of underground gothic darkwave that would find its home very comfortably at the Wave Gotik Treffen or M’era Luna festivals in . Do not make the mistake of believing that bass and keyboards alone would instrumentally in practice appear lacking, as beneath the floating delicate presence lies a forceful blast of frozen arctic wind to awaken all of the ancestors at once with vocalist Laufey Soffia’s icy breath at the helm. Kaelan Mikla would serve as the perfect analogy of the greatness of smaller packages and the awesome vigor of what would seem like less. Enchanting, bizarre and so beautifully feminine, it’s no wonder they were recently championed by Robert Smith as one of his favourite new artists.
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Abruptly, in a neon haze, the dead shall arise and the headline act emerge to reach out and touch the other side. The VV setlist is expertly crafted, weaving between the newer Blade Runner tinted anthems like the awakening scream of “Zener Solitaire”/”Echolocate Your Love” into the comfort of classic dirges like “The Funeral of Hearts”, “The Kiss of Dawn” and “ Me In Death”. A glowingly healthy and vibrant Valo presents the audience with crystal clear precision in every note, every croon, every belt in such an effortless and otherworldly manner. As a part of the crowd, you become suddenly aware of the fact that every single individual and the band has grown together, and this is the legacy we have built. There may not be the usual crazy high-octane energy in the atmosphere one would be accustomed to at the average metal show in Glasgow, but there is a deep warmth in the nostalgia and the tears of joy shed by old friends reflect that perfectly – or perhaps it was just the writer who wept endlessly through “Run Away From The Sun” and “When Love And Death Embrace”, shrouded in the mystery and the arms of a legend returned to life after a long, silent, endless lockdown.
It is easy to forget that this band is a solo act and that Neon Noir was written as an entirely solitary effort in an old, converted photography studio in Helsinki – the entire band have such camaraderie and tightness in their performance that you would easily think they had been there from the beginning. There’s no arrogance or sense of “This is my show and these guys are mere background players”. The entire set is a dazzling display of absolute blinders non-stop from “Right Here In My Arms” to “Loveletting” to all the way to the swan song of “Saturnine Saturnalia” (“Not a complete Black Sabbath carbon copy but almost,” they joke), until the enigmatic five piece evanesces seemingly into thin air one by one as the music carries on. Fond memories indeed. It is a beautifully blended concoction of the eerie, jangly, Stranger Things-esque synthwave you’d expect from Depeche Mode and a throwback to 2009’s Screamworks: Love in Theory and Practice, now with the album’s 80s influences ramped up to 100 – of something that is classic and yet still manages to be fresh, which is in no way an easy feat for any band. Then again, he’s Ville fucking Valo. Need we elaborate?
It has been far too long since his departure which we mourned dearly. But even with the new blood and the improved musical recipe in the form of the VV monicker, it feels as if he never left us. Welcome home, Ville.
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Photos by Sean Larkin Photography
