Gloom 139 Presents: Mopfeet, Cob & Serfs @ The Rat and Pigeon - Gig Review

Gloom 139 Presents: Mopfeet, Cob & Serfs @ The Rat and Pigeon - 7th February 2025

A Friday evening in Manchester's Northern Quarter is nothing new for me. But this night? Anything but ordinary. My hands are in my pockets as I weave through the dimly lit Back Piccadilly, the February cold biting through my trench. I arrive at my destination, light a cigarette, and take in the scene.

Before me stands The Rat and Pigeon, one of Manchester's newest grassroots music venues. There's a buzz in the air - not just the chatter of the crowd gathered outside but something more electric, something pulling people in. Laughter spills onto the pavement, faces glow with anticipation. Whatever's happening tonight, it's got gravity.

Inside, I'm greeted by Craig - a firm handshake, a knowing grin. We're talking music promotion within seconds, as promoters do. Craig's hospitality is my first taste of what a Gloom 139 event is all about, and it won't be the last. I soon realised that Gloom 139 isn't just a name - it's a family. Three generations deep, all equally invested, all ready to lend an ear, a light, or a word of encouragement. It's rare in today's often transactional music scene, and it's nothing short of remarkable.

But enough about promoters - it's not about us. It's about the music.

Doors open at seven-thirty sharp, and within minutes, the room hums with energy. The painted wood-clad space fills with familiarity and excitement, a current crackling through the crowd. It feels like everyone knows everyone - artists, punters, old friends, new faces. Strangers strike up conversations as if they've met before. There's no pretension, just pure, unfiltered anticipation. And it feels damn good to be a part of it.

Serfs

The first act of the night arrived with applause and immediate intrigue. The lights dimmed, and Serfs took to the stage. I had no idea what to expect, and in hindsight, even if I'd spent weeks studying their EP 'We Shall Make It As We Please', I still wouldn't have been prepared - and that's exactly what made them so compelling. Their set wasn't just a performance; it was an evolving, living thing. The music felt like it was being born in real-time, shifting between hypnotic bass grooves, ghostly harmonium swells, and layers of swirling synths and sound. At times, it was delicate, almost fragile, and then, without warning, it erupted into something wild and consuming.

A standout moment came with The Only Place to Spit in a Rich Man’s House is his Face - or something along those lines. The song's name may have slipped my mind, but the experience of it didn't. A sonic collage of synths and bass-led urgency, it wrapped around the room like a slow-building storm. Everything Solid Melts Into Air delivered a grand crescendo worthy of its title, a Doors-meets-Pink Floyd odyssey that felt like shaking off invisible restraints and stepping into the unknown. Every note, every moment, felt transient, like something we were lucky to catch before it disappeared forever. Serfs don't just play songs - they construct and deconstruct them in real time, making each performance a singular, never-to-be-repeated event.

Cob

The guy next to me actually flinched when that first violin screech cut through the room - in a good way. It's one thing to call yourself 'punk-classical,' it's another to actually pull it off. But Cob somehow made it work, even when it felt like everything might fall apart at any second. That tension was the whole point. The violin, at times erratic and jagged, at others soaring and cinematic, cut through the deep, pulsating basslines and relentless rhythms. Beneath it all, a steady piano undertone weaved through the noise like a secret thread, grounding the chaos just enough to keep it from total collapse.

Tracks like Indie Sleaze and Send Them Back came laced with fury - shouty, guttural vocals spat with socialist grit, each lyric a defiant middle finger to the establishment. The latter, in particular, carried an urgency that felt bigger than the room itself, an anti-war, anti-establishment anthem drenched in distortion and rage. As the set progressed, the energy only grew more feverish, each track pushing further into anarchic intensity. By the time the final notes rang out, the crowd wasn't just clapping - they were buzzing, turned inside out by a band that doesn't just perform but provokes. Cob left the room raw, rattled, and hungry for more.

Mopfeet

If Serfs built soundscapes and Cob detonated them, Mopfeet took us somewhere else entirely - a dream state where poetry, psychedelia, and post-rock coalesced into something otherworldly. From the moment they took the stage, it was clear this wasn't just a performance; it was an incantation, a guided journey through ebbing melodies and explosive crescendos.

Their set unfolded like a hypnotic tide, drawing the audience in with poetic, Morrison-esque lyricism before crashing into surges of layered guitars, soaring trumpet lines, and the deep, resonant growl of the double bass. Tracks swayed between folk-inflected storytelling and jazz-infused looseness, each note carefully placed yet utterly unrestrained.

A standout was Rot in Babylon, which came in hot with an urgent, post-punk energy - sharp drum hits, driving bass, and a relentless momentum that refused to be ignored. It was raw, pulsing, and immediate. Then, just as the intensity peaked, the song cracked open, dissolving into a dreamlike, simmering melody. The shift was seamless, like a fever breaking - softer, almost meditative, yet still carrying the weight of everything that came before. Devil of Heaven followed suit, a track that shimmered with fragile beauty before erupting into a wall of sound - feedback, trumpets, and rolling percussion all colliding in a wave of euphoria before settling back into silence.

Conclusion

As I stepped out into the cold before the night had fully drawn to a close, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was leaving something unfinished - like walking away from a film just before the credits roll, knowing the story lingers even after you're gone. But that's the thing about nights like these: they don't end when you leave. They stay with you, humming in the back of your mind, replaying in half-remembered melodies and fleeting conversations.

Gloom 139 don't just put on shows - they build something real. A space where artists are free to experiment, where music isn't a product but a living, breathing thing, and where the line between performer and audience blurs into something communal. Serfs pulled us into the unknown, Cob shook the foundations, and Mopfeet left us drifting somewhere between past and future, awake and dreaming.

Even as I walked through the grimy streets of the Northern Quarter, with the muffled sounds of the venue still hanging in the air, I knew one thing for sure: whatever was still unfolding inside The Rat and Pigeon, it was something worth being a part of. And next time, I wouldn't be leaving early.

A huge thank you to Craig and the family for inviting me down and making me feel so welcome, it was a pleasure to meet you all. As for the artists, each and every one of you played with tremendous passion and grit, you should all be so proud of yourselves for this performance. Finally, thank you to all the staff at the Rat and Pigeon for making the drinks flow, the sound radiate and night turn into day.

Photographs by:

Peter Rooney - @peterooneyphotography

Gabriel Forrest - @gabriel_forrest_