Lightning Bolt; Kill Alters, Jeffrey Alexander + The Heavy Lidders, Gugon Warehouse on Watts
923 N Watts St.
Philadelphia
Oct. 1, 2025
Three years ago I was finally going to see the legendary noise rock duo Lightning Bolt for the first time. All my life I’ve been especially interested in bands or artists that earn the you-have-to-see-them-live tag, and as bewildering and crazy as their records are, Lightning Bolt has always been high on that list. It’s right there in the name: there’s a galaxy of difference between a photo of a lightning bolt and the sound, fury, and flesh-scorching terror of being struck by one. The aforementioned show was at Ukie Club, a 4333 Collective stronghold, and I was there, and everything was going according to plan, but hand-to-god, some combination of major fatigue and seasonal depression took hold that night and I left after opener Cabo Boing. (Who was fucking awesome, by the way.) I just couldn’t hold on that night. So I had to make up for it this time, couldn’t miss them again.
Things got off to a rough start. I took the 4333 flyer’s advertised start time of 7:30 to mean doors were at 7:30, thinking I’d be right on time for Gugon’s set if I rolled up at 8 (“That’s a fair assumption to make,” my friend Eleanor told me, supportively), but they were added last-minute and played right at doors. Some of the guys in Gugon are friends, and occasional former collaborators of mine, and it was their first show, so I felt doubly, maybe triply annoyed and pissed for missing them. I ran into my friend Artie in the alcohol-only section, and he proceeded to describe, enticingly, what he’d heard. I grumbled and braced myself for two more bands I didn’t know, like mini-bosses before the big showdown.
Looking up at the Dan Flavin-style lights on the ceiling— which I imagined were like pinball machine bumpers, with the widely-scattered array of disco balls tucked above them like excess pinballs, itching for a game — I drank a horrible $5 Negroni (too much sweet vermouth, allegedly the backwash left over from the Making Time Festival) and wondered if I’d lose patience again. Jeffrey Alexander + The Heavy Lidders’ set didn’t help. It was this sort of interminable, faux-experimental stoner rock, no interest generated, no alchemy between the players. “Do you think these guys smoke weed?” asked a guy I know, mockingly. “As a stoner, and I don’t say this lightly, I think they need to chill out with that shit,” Artie added.
I thought back on going to shows at venues like this as a teenager, the way that the perma-smell of stale cigarettes and skunked alcohol was like a badge of honor, evidence that I’d passed through a portal into a strange, exclusive adult world — but there, in the present, twice as old, I found myself wanting to plug my nose and ears until the true, life-affirming, visceral thrill of insanely, giddily loud and cartoonishly abrasive music could take over and obliterate all other senses. I walked outside to get some fresh air, but there was none to be had due to the strict no-reentry policy, the only place to stand being the smoker’s section. I copped a stick of gum and braced myself for a potential long-feeling wait.
Thankfully, Kill Alters turned it all around. They played with a no-fucks-given ferocity and single-minded intensity that finally got the whole crowd engaged and moving, like we were the pinballs on the ceiling dropped and set loose, joyously ricocheting off each other across the floor. The duo – Bonnie Baxter on vocals, guitar, and table-top machinery, and Hisham Akira Bharoocha (himself a former member of Lightning Bolt) on drums and vocals – performed a heavily-processed, blown-out, hazardous blend of propulsive, trippy digital hardcore, with aplomb, Bharoocha shirtless and gleaming sweat, Baxter restless and bouncing around. I got right up against the guardrail by the stage, at first wishing I’d brought earplugs, then fully swept up in the energy, deciding that I, too, would give no fucks.
When Lightning Bolt finally took the stage, my legs felt fresh. I was ready. (Confession: between sets, I did grab a paper towel and tear off some pieces to roll up and shove into my ears. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.) It dawned on me quickly that this was perhaps the most basement-show-ass-NOT-basement-show I’ve been to in as long as I can remember (“I was JUST thinking that!” Gugon guitarist Danny Murillo agreed). Characteristically, the band (Brian Gibson and Chippendale, on bass and drums/voice, respectively) played so loud and so furiously that Gibson’s bass amp toppled over, only briefly interrupting the show; as their crew attempted to fix the amp, to no avail, Chippendale committed further acts of deleterious cacophony all on his own. “Only in Philadelphia!” he shouted, through his ghoulish face mask and mouthful of affected microphones; chances are, several present remember the time Lightning Bolt caused a power outage at First Unitarian. Whether playing entire songs that are like an extended hyperactive drum-and-bass fill, endless and terrifying like a black hole, or pounding out grooves that are actually danceable, Lightning Bolt was awesome. I watched the back half of their performance from side stage, with Danny and a DJ named Mel B, and we all agreed: with the right attitude, all music is dance music.
