A bit of a frustrating day three in the Sonar house(hold). Which, it would appear, may be haunted. After having the distinct impression that someone, or thing, was making an impression on me as I lay in bed in the early hours, Martin mentions in passing that he heard 'someone' moving around in his room, also. They seem benign, whoever 'they' are, anyway. Which is something. Or nothing - perhaps our sun-stroked imaginations?

Anyway...frustrations all round today, as the event we opted to see at Sonarama - a short trek along La Rambla, made more scenic by taking some back streets and my stop-off for photo opportunities in the old local market, Sant Josep - until my camera died. Curses! - was Feed at 4pm. On arrival at 'rama, we were asked to sign a form stating that we didn't suffer from, among other things, migraines and low blood pressure. Which Martin does. And anxiety, which surely we all do at some point in our lives? Cue heated 'discussion' over the legal technicalities of disclaimers and his refusal to sign, which I won't bore you with. Suffice to say, it wasn't going to happen. Not that there was much else anywhere else that we wished to see, until Sunn O))) came up at 5pm.

Cue frustration number two. Sunn O)))'s set was rammed. Or at least we couldn't get into SonarHall. All entrances secured, no pasa, etc. Fortunately, after the delaying tactic of a detour via the Editorial Fair (lots of fashion / lifestyle mags, and The Wire, as ever) we (along with lots of others) managed to at least get to the mezzanine floor at the side of the Hall part way through the set, and could hear the sons of Sunn O))) grinding out their wall of sound, and feel the repercussions through the floor and glass barriers. This afforded an advantageous vantage point for the not-even-two-thirds-full Hall (HOW annoying!?!), but no more than an occasional glimpse - when someone left - of a dry ice-shrouded stage through gaps in the curtains along the edge of said hall. Around 5.40pm, the officious, seemingly-haphazard and rather unnecessary crowd-control restrictions were lifted, and we moved inside. Unlike entrance restrictions, the dry ice in the house HADN'T lifted. To see anything of what was occurring on the stage, I had to stand right next to a speaker. Which made my hair, quite literally, stand on end. Loud? What? I was rewarded for this endeavour by seeing the vocalist slowly crawling his way off, stage left, on his stomach. That was enough for me. Or anyone with any sense of theatre and artistry, I would imagine. I moved to the middle of the room, to survey Sunn O)))'s prowess from a safe distance.

Not that, in theory, there was much to see. With the vocalist, at this point, having exited stage left, there remained a bass player and guitarist, shrouded in both mystery and smog. And wearing cowls. This mystery, and sense of immortals feeding from a higher power, was somewhat tarnished by their occasional swigging from large beer bottles (in silhouette), but I have to admit that, much as I wanted not to like the powerful drones pulsating from the stage, it was an awe-inspiring, and quite literally physical, presence. The resonant frequencies worked because of the sound: huge amps and everything well-balanced. And all the time it sounded as if it was just about to end. Or begin again. Just as I REALLY thought it was going to end, the vocalist returned. The smog was clearing, but he was garbed in what looked like medieval costume, and seemed to have no arms. It all added to the sense of otherness I was starting to experience. All in all, Sunn O))) went down well with this London judge, and I left feeling that I had definitely had an experience, even if I wasn't sure what exactly it was.

So. About last night. By the time we got to Las Ramblas, on our way to see the Beasties, I wasn't feeling all that well. Too much Sunn O))), and not enough sun, I suspect. There was the usual long queue for buses, getting longer by the minute. And a longer-than-usual wait to enter the venue, once we disembarked. The Boys' set had started when we made it into the huge space with seemingly-miniscule stage at the end. And it was filling-up fast. Within ten minutes of us taking up position to the left of the sound desk the half of the 'room' behind us was also full of bodies as far the eye could see. Have never seen so many people at any one show in SonarClub. The set-list was as varied as the Beastie's output, moving from punk rock to lounge jazz via massive hip hop beats. Sabotage and Egg Raid in particular got the crowd's bodies moving. A lot. They may need to dye their roots these days, but they never deny them. And Mixmaster Mike was on fine form. MMM - goddamn that dj made my night.

We moved off to the professional area in search of refreshment and respite. Caught some of Uffie's set whilst queueing at our conveniences, discussing with a man from Cardiff whether it was indeed her (it was, she was just on early. And shouting a lot) and the provenance of Welsh as the oldest Celtic language. How very British, although not very rock'n'roll. The rest of the evening was spent in SonarLab, listening (and in Martin's case, dancing) to dubstep from the likes of DJ Skream (who was indeed a hoot. In a good way), watching - and in my case snapping, the dodgems. Shooting the breeze, indeed - before heading for the bus again and some not-at-all-earned rest.

Richard, for Funkturm