"... the one in Manchester... It only happens once every six or seven. You suddenly hit it. It's like a seance. It's almost like you've been taken over or something's coming through that's nothing to do with you or the people there - and everyone can feel it, but you can't describe it, and that's why sometimes when it's like that and people try and describe the gig to someone else they sort of talk about it like a kind of drug or a religious experience. The words they use are much more like that and they almost never talk about the music... because it isn't music, it's something else... It was very tribal and pagan, the whole feeling. Like one girl got hysterical... she just couldn't handle it, and it was like one of those gospel meetings where the odd person goes over the top, you know... and that's why we started calling them psychic rallies... it's actually more accurate; a rally or a ceremony that we're trying to generate a psychic event, and that's why we deliberately changed it to say that we're basically no longer affiliated with music in any way. Although we use sound in some musical pattern, our basic concern is a psychic one... and it will become more so, and that's probably why I feel we'll have to change the name. So that we can start again and become even more and more focused on that side of it without the history of TG to spoil it."

Genesis P-Orridge interview 11 January 1981. (Published in Real Shocks 1.)

Industrial Records
promotional leaflet

Photos by David Minshall

Throbbing Gristle - Manchester

A LOT more than just another gig and also, a lot less.
Unpleasant noises greeted me as I entered the ridiculous Rafters rock venue. I headed for the bar.
"Ah a", said a voice, "A bar-room journalist." I cursed, I decided I'd have to watch myself, too many nasty local fanzines around for my liking.
The gig was developing into one of those wonderful anti-climax situations, the kind which Throbbing Gristle adore and use to the full. They have an uncanny knack of making the audience look foolish. Throbbing Gristle are all about creating atmosphere, an uneasy atmosphere, an atmosphere which allows them to exploit the crowd's emotions, chiefly boredom and confusion. When they are not creating strong images, TG play about with a sadistic desire to inflict pain and expose the worst aspects of horrible reality.
They strolled on stage. Genesis P-Orridge adopted his preacher role. Arms outstretched, he screeched over the top of the ugly din. Carter and Christopherson stayed at the rear looking friendly and, as usual, totally out of place. Cosey sat down content to add an odd streak of piercing guitar. Orridge looked nasty, his face smeared with red blotches and his expression menacing. At times he would explode with emotion and jerk violently sideways. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
For half an hour the sound remained a mass of distorted noise, actually more imposing than the TG norm. Finally the format splintered and after a few minutes of complete chaos, an interesting disco funk appeared. Orridge moved to the back of the stage and began hitting his guitar at irregular intervals. The disco churned on before rapidly vanishing and Throbbing Gristle were gone. So sudden and just as it was becoming interesting. Well, the lousy sods.
Rafters burst into an instant debating hall. Nobody could criticise TG because TG made no promises. They broke no rules. Throbbing Gristle are Throbbing Gristle and no-one else even comes close. Thank God.

Mick Middles, Sounds 27 Dec 80

Set included:

Illuminated 666, Betrayed,
Womb of Corruption, Very Friendly,
Something Came Over Me, Playground,
Auschwitz, Devil's Gateway,
Hastings, Discipline

The Gristle Throbbed

Throbbing Gristle. More grey, bleak industrial music. Grown men groan and people in pubs reach for pints. Throbbing Gristle - the band who run their own Industrial (The Industrial) Records. A band who keep their correspondents on file and mail them details of interesting events. A band who put a questionnaire on sex in one of their record sleeves - those who answered it regularly receive catalogues and other mail advertising all kinds of literature and devices for sexual delight and discomfort. A band, one of the few, who haven't compromised. Who are doing what they set out to do.

Arriving at the club, a film is being shown. I find a friend and he's groaning, wincing and looking ill, "You've missed it, they were showing a vasectomy." "A what?", I ask. "A castration. In detail as well. There was blood everywhere, scissors, the full details." I offer him a bite of my cheese sandwich; he refuses, winces again and turns almost green. I laugh, it's a funny thing. Male friends who don't like talking about castration try and brush it under the carpet. Why? I don't know.
Throbbing Gristle threw it in their face and as I walked in, everyone watched, mesmerised.
This was followed by a 'William Burroughs film' which was rather boring. This was followed by Throbbing Gristle.
Three [Axis note; the reviewer seems to have missed Chris Carter tucked away at the back] people on a stage. One person sang, sometimes he played bass, he stared at the audience, psychotic stare, back turned. One person played guitar, she had half a dozen different coloured effects pedals at her feet, sometimes she played some keyboards, her back turned, side to the audience. One person didn't 'play' anything, he operated a machine, what kind of machine I haven't got a clue. Some kind of cassette? Lots of knobs, an electronic machine. Want to know their names, do you? Obsessed with the personality cult? Are You? Tough. Remember a name, Throbbing Gristle. Fucking music… fucking weird.
A group of people stood in a semi-circle watching, some drift away but most stay the course. The course. A course of events, like rhythm machines, that electronic pulse, one way or another. Like a guitar that slices in, like a bass that drives the rhythm. Ha! Describe the music! You, the reader. Peruse. Peruse. Shitting, it was. Like Tangerine Dream on speed. Like Can on acid. Cabaret Voltaire spend a night with Mark Smith and end up in a lunatic asylum. A Certain Ratio forget that being 'funky' might get them on Top Of The Pops and revert to being obnoxious. Throbbing Gristle throbbed like an erect male sex organ, much to their delight.
Members of the audience threw up in the toilets. A manager of a (once) famous band vows they'll never play Manchester again (some chance). The P.A. crew don't understand it. What is this noise about? What is this noise?
The singers voice, 98% unintelligible through echo and god knows what, his hand freshly cut, blood congealed, blood on forehead. Like watching three people at work. Three people in their front room. Sometimes they wander across and talk to each other, ask something… sort something out. I'm suprised that they didn't stop for a tea break and break out the butties.

On the edge. Ha ha. The edge. STILL, do you understand. I don't normally like this sort of stuff, but this is different, it's got that sort of essential feeling, the noise that is heartfelt. Your soul, do you know it? I felt privileged to be there.

City Fun, Vol.2 No.7, 9-22 Jan 81