Escape to Victory. Live review of The Dillinger Escape Plan at Koko

The Dillinger Escape Plan *****
Three Trapped Tigers *****
Maybeshewill *****

Koko, Camden, 8th November 2013

On the face of it, tonight's bill is a little like a menu from one of those utterly pretentious 1980s wanky restaurants. You know the kind of thing; a foetal marmoset on a bed of pan fried Albanian grandmother's pubes in a bile and kumquat coulis. It just shouldn't work. Or even be there.

But that's being far too simplistic. And narrow-minded. All three acts are all bound together by a host of DNA similarities. Passion. Energy. Musicianship. The desire to bloody mindedly challenge  the status quo and fart in the face of the average or bland. All mixed up with  a unified and innate 'don't give a fuck' attitude, we're going to do it our way cojones. 

And tonight, even though it's a ridiculously early start for a metropolitan Friday night rock show, London's inquisitive, converted, obsessed and musical libertarian masses are out in force to tuck into this most startling buffet.

Maybeshewill *****

First on the tasting plate are Leicester's post rock maestros Maybeshewill. To a surprisingly big early crowd, they weave a magical delirium and hypnotic mist that old Merlin himself would have been proud of. 

The sound is crystal cear, the lightshow captivating (big up to DEP for letting/insisting that their supports get the full bag of toys to play with - most headliners give the undercard the equivalent of two or three 60w domestic bulbs, a glow stick and hang thick army blankets in front of the front of house) and mesmerising as the quintet take the bearded and plaid-draped throng on an emotional and organ-adjusting half an hour journey that seduces, tantalises and engages from the first perfectly played hemi-demi-semi quaver to the last.

This is far from indulgent muso wank though. It's huge, cinematic, spine tingling and satisfying splendour. Yes, it's clever, but never knowing or self-regarding. The fact that post rock (if it is indeed a genre at all) largely remains vocal-free exposes the music itself, but like a blind man develops better hearing, the absence of a crooner only serves to heighten the musicality and makes it work harder to captivate and beguile.

Thundering  rhythms, stunning stick work, lyrical and melodic reveries and modular arpeggios come together to provide a delicious and truly unique (and surprisingly emotionally-drenched ) taste sensation. Delicious. Bloody delicious.

Three Trapped Tigers *****

After the soundscapes and seduction of Maybeshewill, it's time to turn things up a little on the sensation-ometer. As the next course on this most challenging, exciting and outré meal, Three Trapped Tigers saunter onto the stage and deliver a meaty, jagged, brutal and massive portion of kick-arse. 

This is beautiful, multi layered cuisine, but infused with face melting chili that, at times is off the scoville scale. It's wholly unfair to lay most of the blame for the blistering mind-blowing intensity on the plate of Mr Adam Betts, the drummer. But I'm going to. 

More than just aided by Matt Calvert and Tom Rogerson on banks of keys and guitar, Betts drives this Hadean-bound, fucked up pantechnicon like some meta amphetamine powered demented dervish. No one on the earth surely hits the skins with greater power or precision. It's almost impossible to take your eyes off Betts, despite Rogerson and Calvert's best efforts, he's like Kaa the snake from Jungle book; beguiling, entrancing, mesmeric, stunning.

The barrage continues apace. But it's far from relentless; apart from going through just about every time signature on the planet (and some previously undiscovered) there's genuine contrast, nuance and dynamic to their offering.

Betts' driving is flawless and breathtaking throughout. Even the great Billy Rymer must have the odd twinge of nerves backstage as he waits in the wings. Like Maybeshewill before them, they benefit from the full-on eye-melting lightshow and, again, like their Leicestershire commrades have never sounded better.

This is top drawer music. Combining funk, classical, jazz, metal, fusion - what the fuck ever. Genuinely dazzling. You can call them math rock, noise rock, post modern up your arse on a hook rock. In the end, it's just brilliant. Truly brilliant.



The Dillinger Escape Plan *****

Always a bit difficult contemplating a main course after such perfect starters, hors d'oeuvres and canapés, but the inter-course wait means the by now totally rammed Koko is salivating, drooling and ravenous.

The house lights finally dim and a stygian landscape of screens carrying fucked-up, acid suffused weirdness, words, images and footage that would have happily graced Un Chien Andalou flicker and tantalise.

Then it kicks off. The razor sharp jump lead bulldog clamps are viciously attached to every fold of genitalia in the room and the wattage, ampage and voltage are all ramped to the max. Bodies squirm, dive, surf, ride, fit, spasm, gyrate, ejaculate and circulate. 

Dillinger are like no other band on the planet. They're as raw as a freshly peeled penis rubbed with drain cleaner, as aggressive as a starved tasmanian devil with hornets up its arse, but as calculated and clever as a sack of Harvard-educated weasels. There's no accident here.

The playing, as always is unbelievable technical and skilful maintained incredibly while jumping, diving, crowd walking, climbing, leaping and running. Billy Rymer's drumming, is crisp, polyrhythmic, mind-melting and super-human, the demonic Rasputin Liam Wilson is the heartbeat of the whole cardiac arrest fisting the baying crowd with his deep penetrating bass dildo, while Ben Weinman's and James Love's über-tight pyrotechnic fret work is relentlessly flawless but never predictable or tiring.

And the whole shit circus is lead with vim, vitriol and vigour by the impossibly hench Monsieur Greg Puciato. His eyes bulging almost as much as his ridiculous, thigh sized guns as he preens, snarls, screams and spellbinds the sweating, writhing hordes. The sing backs have never sounded louder or more passionate. The more memorable and melodic refrains in Black Bubblegum, Milk Lizard, the amazing One of Us Is The Killer and Gold Teeth On A Bum almost drown out the huge barrage of noise coming from the stage. 

There's genuine love in the room. But man love. Punching hard on the shoulder and bear hug love. No kissing, fondling or fingering here. And it's impossible not to be caught up in the testosterone-soused love-in.

Dillinger always eschew the norm. Fly in the face of convention. They're never afraid to appal as well as enthral. They are the very spirit of rock and roll. The flag wavers of the middle finger-in-the air generation. Never contrived or ever just going though the motions, they are a fluid, fearless and frightening force of nature and knock just about every other so called heavy, punk, metal, math or rap band into the most cocked of cocked hats.

I can honestly say, I'm not sure whether I actually love their music, hate it, am inexorably and chemically addicted to it or am just intrigued, bewildered and stunned by it. But tonight I fell in love again. In a manly way of course.

Tonight's weird and wonderful bill has been one of the cleverest, most uplifting and refreshing menus I've ever had the pleasure of dining from. For the first time ever, I felt it necessary to give all the acts on the bill of fare five stars. I have been left drained, breathless, hypnotised, sodomised and seduced. And that, my friends is what powerful, engaging, don't give a fuck music should all be about. A bloody men.



 

Arc the herald angels don't usually sing. Arc Tan Gent Festival Live Review

Arc Tan Gent Festival *****
Fernhill Farm Somewhere in the bowels of Somerset 29-31st August

So it's finally here. A festival for all the weirdies. All the unclassifiable ones. All the ones who can clap in time. The ones with beards. And plaid. 

Joking aside, since it was announced by the good people behind the mighty 2000 Trees, Arc Tan Gent has been one of the most fiercely anticipated and important festivals in years.  

It's a collection of off-beat, alternative (in the true sense of the word) diverse, challenging, brilliant, quirky and outré acts (mainly from our sceptred isles) that forms the perfect antidote to the banal and predictable gruel served up at most of the myriad of carbon copy corporate calamities crammed to the gills with Clapham-dwelling, Bulmers drinking, flowery wellie-wearing, Kings Of Leon-listening, Superdry-sporting, faceless, tasteless ISA investing, BMW-driving dicks. And it's here. Thank the fucking lord.

In keeping with the slightly off-beat theme, things kick off a day early with a limited line up culminating in a fan-voted set from Leicester's post rock dahlinks, Maybeshewill. And the crowds have poured in for the warm up day, filling the verdant Fernhill fields from the word go.

THURSDAY

Before we tumble into the music on offer, it's worth pointing out just how brilliantly this festival is set up. It's quite small but doesn't feel pokey. The vibe is fantastic. Über-friendly in and laid back in the extreme (aided by THC no doubt). Everyone is here for the music. Not a right of passage, a gap year gas or bucket list box ticking exercise.

The layout is well thought through (with the possible exception that the impressive main stage may have been slightly better placed in the bowl of the natural amphitheatre rather than perched atop its side - probably drainage issues to be fair). But the food concessions, merch, other stores and stages are perfectly appointed. Could have done with a few more bogs though.

Right, music. Given the daunting task of opening the whole junket are local trio Memory Of Elephants ***** and they do a sterling job. A tremolo-infused post noise rocky din switching between two guitars and a bass and guitar and serving up the already packed tent a great aperitif.

Obviously, even with the best intent in the world, it's impossible to catch every act, but from the snippets I catch, ensuing (and from what I can glean, also local) acts Flights and Falling Stacks seemed to continue the vibe to an equally packed tent before Alright The Captain ***1/2** (replacing POHL) take to the boards. And they deliver a jazzy/mathy/proggy/post rocky/jagged and boisterous fusillade with wit, energy and spice. Tasty.

Next up are Hereford tribe Talons***1/2** violin and all. Which affords the band a bit of space between itself and some of the other post-rock acts around. And mercifully is used differently enough from tune to tune; not just as a pad or stringy fill. Stabby staccato and pizzicato, frenzied, almost Paganini-like cadenzas and melodic ersatz-vocal work sit happily above the intricate soundscapes provided by the more traditional instruments. A heady and interesting mix.

Talking of traditional, next up are the stoner, spacey, proggy, monged Amplifier *****. Dressed like something from a 70's Saturday night end of the pier spectacular or golf club dinner dance - resplendent in black shirts with snazzy matching amulets and serious faces, they (eventually, after starting 10 minutes or so late - TCH? Surely not) kick off into a set with the bong water infused with everything from Into The Void era Sabbath, Intronaut, A Perfect Circle, Uriah Heep and even touches of The Buggles if they were backing Tool. 

Occasional big-arsed half time riffs and repetitive, head bobbing inducing chuggy bombs rear their alien heads from forgotten decades and Sel Balamir's spacey lyrics provide a sprinkle of even more mind-altering weirdness to proceedings. An often bizarre and somewhat uncomfortable, but not wholly unpleasant, trip. Man.

So, next up and now in front of a fully rammed and overspilling tent it's the turn of the delicious Maybeshewill****1/2* The fan-voted set throws up few surprises and every riff, passage and melody is fervently sung back by a baying, salivating crowd. The spine-tingling Red Paper Lanterns and melodic hook overloaded I'm In Awe Amadeus are personal high spots, but the set is jammed with beauty, depth, goosebump-inducing progressions all  delivered with wonderful craft and genuine enjoyment. 

The love in the tent is just huge and serves as a great big good night snog and a hug for all the happy campers (despite not quite reaching the vinegar stroke of the last number due to the over-running of the bong-water drinking Amplifier). Awesome stuff indeed. And so to bed. Well, after a bit of a party.

FRIDAY

So, thanks mainly to Cotswold Cider and Montepulciano, Friday shuffles into focus shrouded in a hazy fug and the impressive main stage crackles into life for the first time. To be honest the delicious locally smoked bacon roll and coffee accounted for missing most of the openers The Naturals, but they seem to draw in a reasonable crowd from the rapidly swelling day one proper numbers. 

But it's Baby Godzilla***** who really shake off the collective post-party torpor with a fantastic, aggressive, mayhem-strewn kick in the face set of punky, hardcore-hued anthemic, grizzly and uplifting noise. This lot look like the band that a family in Shameless would have been. You know, the noisy bastard neighbours with overgrown front garden strewn with rusty car parts, old bikes, piles of pizza boxes and beer cans who spend the day just shouting at each other.

The two feral front men spend more of their time off the stage than on it taking instruments and mics into the throng. Climbing gantries, using crowd members as mic stands, throwing guitars around, even - and quite brilliantly - giving a guitar to a member of the crowd to play through one song. And - remarkably - it hangs together. A shell shocked early congregation enters fully into the spirit and they really have set the bar high for the day. 

And by the time the last guitar makes its way back onto stage, shorn of strings and looking like most people's hungover heads, the fug has truly been lifted and smiles have replaced any dehydrated downturned mouths. Brilliant stuff.

Right, hangover confined to history, time to properly ease into what's going to be a long day. Over to the second stage for Leeds-based stoner psychedelic progmeisters Humanfly*****

A reasonable early crowd has gathered by the time the interstellar overdrive button is pressed and our trippy journey begins. 

What follows is an eye-closing, mind expanding, head bobbing voyage of wonder. So many influences could be cited from Floyd to Greenslade, Caravan to Return To Forever. But, the bizarre thing is, that despite the rock, jazz, fusion, prog and stoner lineage, it still feels kind of fresh. Even original. 

John Sutcliffe's light and ethereal vocals struggle a tiny bit this early but the band are tight, sharp and totally loving it. There's a comfort and warmth; almost a nostalgia in the air as they power through lengthy, multi-layered and faceted spacey flight. And I can't get the grin off my face. Can't wait to see them in a dingy late night sweaty room with a proper lightshow, Just what the Doctor Seuss ordered. 

So, feeling as metaphorically stoned thanks to the Humanfly big fat human one, it's time to return to some mathy, post-rock. And who better to ease the come down than East Midland scene stalwarts You Slut!*****

Their poppy, dancy undercurrent is supported by choppy, techy, intricate time signature noodling and syncopated polyrhythms but the overall effect is far from inaccesible; in fact the opposite. Despite the counting and the oft complex constructs, this is good time fuck yeah fuel. And the tent knows it. A packed Bixler tent laps it up greedily and the affable quartet seem humbled by it. But the adoration is fully deserved with early afternoon perspiration and dopamine levels soaring off the chart. Bloody marvellous.

Following on from You Slut! on the Bixler stage are Brighton-based trio Physics House Band ***** A beautiful and stealthy start with a duel between keys and bass, refereed by an inquisitive drummer suddenly blossoms into a set of true majesty. 

Adam Hutchison's mesmerising bass playing is the glue that holds the amazing tour-de-force together. I have seldom seen such brilliance from one so young. It's impossible to cast aside comparisons with a young Stanley Clarke: this guy is the nuts. However, in fairness it's not all about him. He's abetted by the multi instrumentalist  and wonderfully monikered Sam Organ on guitar and various keys and noise making rigs and the sharp drumming of Dave Morgan provides a remarkable trellis for the music to climb all over.

This is top drawer music. In any category. Flying wildly between genres, taking in jazz fusion, funk, prog, mathcore and general neo-classical modernism, it's quite simply astonishing. 

shoe gazing. man.

Back to the main stage for a much needed post-Physics House Band coital chill at the hands of kentish soundscapers Yndi Halda***** I love this lot, but (my fault) they've dropped off my radar a little recently, so I don't know what they've been up to since the last time I saw them supporting the mighty and much missed Oceansize. 

Their magnificent album Enjoy Eternal Bliss is right up there on my most played list and thankfully they soothe us with works culled  from it this fine afternoon. But, dammit,  there's a load of new stuff on show that I'm unaware of. And it mainly includes vocals. Not that that's a bad thing by any means. It's just caught me off guard. But the vibe is, as always beautiful and mellow without being soporific. A perfect late afternoon balm. Eternal Bliss indeed.

Complete change of pace needed. Prescription: 

Sheffield's mighty noise canons Rolo Tomassi ****1/2* 

I'm beginning to fall deeply in love with this festival. While, on the face of it, there appear to be a lot of very similar bands on the bill, it's dawning on me that there's such staggering diversity and startling cleverness in the curation that any initial apprehension or preconceptions were as specious as they were misplaced. Proof, if needed is delivered in spades by the Spence siblings and their noisenik crew. 

A brisk and wonderful set shows off the delicious Eva Spence's baffling Jekyll and Hyde Schizophrenia: on one hand delightful, seductive, ethereal chanteuse - on the other: a rusty box of napalm stuffed with tacks, shards of glass and fuck-off thorns and thistles with a sonic output like a Superbike with a knackered silencer.

But, as always, it works. A good range of old favourites and the newer, slightly more sophisticated work from the stunning Astraea spellbind the crowd. And the band look as though they're thoroughly enjoying themselves too; bopping, writhing, jumping, looning and grinning their way through their jazzy, alt, mathy, poppy melange. 

Because of bill congestion and slight overlaps, it all gets a bit frantic for a bit, but I do manage to grab a solid earful of the ever-brilliant Brontide***** on a rammed Bixler stage complete with Nathan Fairweather making the same dash from Rolo Tomassi's main stage triumph to take up the four strings for the post-rock kings. They truly are leaders of a very talented pack and tonight they cement themselves into that position with the adoring masses.

Back on the main stage (or was it before - all getting a bit much thanks to Jager, Cider, the last of the Montepulciano and 'Humanfly'), it's time for Maybeshewill ***** again. 

This time a slightly different set, but delivered with the same passion and pleasure to a much bigger crowd than last night's intimate kick off.

The neck hairs are up again. The collective goosebumped flesh makes the crowd look like a Bernard Matthews plucking shed and the thousands of doe-eyed faces must hurt from smiling. This is just wonderful. And as the sun is setting in the heart of Somerset, there isn't a dry eye in the field as the monumental shimmering beauty of some of the world's finest melodic post-rock enraptures and mesmerises. It truly doesn't get much better than this.

So, still bathing in the total beauty of Maybeshewill, it's time for yet anther change of stage and mood. Quirky Londoners Public Service Broadcasting***1/2** are headlining the Bixler stage with their kooky audio visual, post Kraftwerk, automaton triggered, Orwellian/Kafkaesque prole-tertainment smorgasbord. And the gathered citizens and denizens tuck in greedily. There's a dry humour thoroughout with even the 'banter' between tunes synthesized. But the overall effect is one of energization and this is as near as Arc Tan Gent has got to a rave yet with lots of lost souls losing their collective shit; albeit in a slightly controlled and middle-England kind of way. One imagines the smartly turned out band members would approve of the restraint and decorum. 

I'll be honest, Much as I love 65DaysofStatic***** I only manage to stay upright for a portion of their stunning set before needing a late evening safety nap. But the light show and huge crowd do their best to keep me together enough to get stuck in to the vibe for long enough to crack my face from smiling yet again. I'd be lying like a cheap korean watch if I could remember exactly what they play. But it is, as always splendid. I think. Oh fuck it. Time for another Jager bomb and  the silent disco.

The Silent Disco*****

if you weren't there, I'm not going to even begin to explain. Just, fuck.

SATURDAY

Oh god.

No, really. Oh God.

Right, got to man up. There's heads to nod. Beards to stroke. Shoes to gaze at. Coffee to be drunk. Bacon to be gobbled. Hmmmm, bacon.

So, after, what can only be described as a 'sketchy' night, it's time to start all over again. And what better way to ease away the toxins than with a saunter down to the sun-soaked main stage for some soothing tunes. 

Things kick off with a space psych noodling and pleasant enough wake up at the hands of ANTA***** who draw a surprisingly healthy (in numbers not physical condition, clearly) early crowd who bob along to their mashed up time signature other-worldly din.

Hot on the space winged heels of ANTA are Delta Sleep*****

And this eclectric crew move things up (and pace wise, down) a notch or two. A sophisticated cocktail of post-rock vibes with towering repetitive, hummable passages that would grace an early Radiohead long player set to an, at times almost jazzy rhythmic backdrop with inevitable alt influences swimming to the surface. 

Think Colours or Tubelord (without the hysteria) mixed with moments of Reuben but with a Brontide-like modular construction. God, that sounded pretentious. Sorry. Anyway, heady and fabulous stuff. And the perfect companion to more yet more Cotswold cider. 

Continuing with the laconic, spiritual and glorious sunny morning vibe, next up are the cello-driven Pirate Ship Quintet***1/2** And they continue the group seduction with a chilled, multi-layered and textured blanket of loveliness. Hmmm.

Vessels***** do their Vessels-like thing next and manage to hold on to what's becoming a nomadic crowd while entertaining them with a splendid tapestry of big harmonic and melodic huggery.

But it's TTNG***** who really get Saturday smiling. And, indeed, probably the whole weekend. A totally spellbinding and magical smirkfest beguiles and stupefies the huge crowd. They are in their own perfect bubble. Not rushed, phased, worried or seemingly aware of what's around them. But not in a distant or an aloof way. In fact, completely the opposite. They are charming, engaging, enthralling and delightful. Tim Collis's legendary and peerles tapping, sliding, intricate and totally effortless brilliance on the guitar provides the canvas on which his brother Chris's sublime drumming and Henry Tremain's delicious vocals and equally majestic fretwork paint masterpiece after masterpiece.

Breaths are genuinely taken away and a hazy mass delirium settles on the bucolic Saturday afternoon pastoral scene. An absolute privilege to be here and one of the most genuinely memorable and beautiful experiences imaginable. Genius. Just genius.

Now this is the only major clash bummer of the weekend. Who, in their right mind wouldn't want to see the incredible and other worldly majesty of Nordic Giants? Who? Well, no one. But a major gaff on the line up meant that I only catch the merest whiff of the moving brilliance which is a real sickener.

So, sad, but undaunted, I reach for one of the best possible cures: the ever-brilliant Arcane Roots****1/2* Now, the clash gods have also been unkind to Kingston's world class trio and the Bixler tent is not as full as they rightly deserve. 

Unbothered, Mssrs Groves, Burton and Atkins climb into a fizzing and aggressive set which gets the pits opening up and arms and legs flailing like a speed dictation exercise at a sign language conference. All hell breaks loose and the huge-bollocked riffology of Resolve, the visceral madness of Second Breath, the sing-a-long glory of You Are and the utter arrhythmia-inducing set closer Million Dollar Que$tion are among the highlights of the whole weekend. Amazing stuff, amazing band. Slightly out of water among the post rock math fish in this particular lake, but a fabulous and engaging performance. As always.

Another traipse back to the main stage, this time to be wowed by the ever-sensational Three Trapped Tigers*****

It's always tempting to put  fantasy supergroups together when you see so many brilliant bands in such close proximity. But, despite there being such an embarrassing wealth of amazing drummers on show (however expected that might be at such a tech/prog/math event) Adam Betts will always be first on the team sheet. He is, to put it mildly, one of the most incredible dummers on the planet. 

It's as disingenuous as it is unfair to label TTT as Bett's band, but he is the prima ballerina. The controlling genius midfielder. The general. The showy-offy, better than everybody else, goody two shoes, creepy bum-lick bastard. And what a show he and his two buddies Tom Rogerson and Matt Calvert put on.

Putting the noise into noise-rock, they assault every organ. Overload every sense. Hyper-excite every nerve ending. Huge sub bass growls, brown-notes, spiralling arpeggios and thudding, teeth-rattling riffs completely captivate and seduce the bewildered but beguiled crowd. It's not the stuff you put on the hi-fi at a standard semi-detached house party, but man, it rocks and given the adoration and adulation it engenders this evening its certainly a party starter in this part of town. Er, country.

A quick mention again about the festival in general, but mainly the food. As already mentioned, the organisation and layout is bang on, but I just want to run the rule over the spectacular food: Dorset Smokery ***** amazing bacon Pie Minister***** pies don't come much pie-ier. Delicious. The Fernhill Farm Outlet ***** Honestly, the tastiest shoulder of lamb I've ever tasted. Sublime. Glastonbury Wood Fired Pizza Van Thing ***** Pizza From a wood burning oven. Say no more. Apart from Pepperoni. Hmmm. Cotswold Cider ***** Hic.

On the home straight now. And what better way to start winding things up than with Ulster's triumphant instrumental legends ASIWYFA*****?

Right from the off, there's a super-special vibe in the absolutely crammed main stage. Barriers are broken down (and lovingly restored by the terribly well-behaved but seriously rowdy crowd) as the human remains in this Somerset field collectively lose their shit.

The band look as though they've never been happier as they stride through a masterful set jammed as full as a bull's bum with explosiveness, joy, vim, power, passion, energy and bucketloads of fun. As atmosphere goes, this is the one this weekend. There is a telepathy between the crowd and the band. It's like the masses of gyrating, thrashing and whirling bodies are sync-linked to the sound output. It's truly awesome to be part of. Pits, moshing, dancing, gay abandon. Heavenly oneness. A true musically and heart-driven shared experience never to be forgotten. World class.

Well, that's me done. Try to get into a rammed tent for the always excellent Tall Ships***** but have to settle for watching them from afar (see what I did there?). They're bloody good to be fair. Have a look at Bo Ningen***** Nah. Not happening. Go to see Fuck Buttons***** Not my kind of thang. Too many computers. Not enough real. But impressive light show. But, after ASIWYFA, nothing is going to work. Even a Zeppelin reunion. So to the Shisha tent. Hmmm. Humanfly.

Crashed. Burned. Staggered. Astonished. Spellbound. Fucked. What a totally amazing weekend stuffed with some of the very best music one could ever hope to be exposed to. 

A total triumph of curation, organisation and delivery. Need to recover before next year. Can't wait.

Bring it on.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

Pictures and shit: Because my phone ran out of charge earlier than expected, I've had to 'liberate' some of the pics used in this post from other sources including screen grabs and stills. I hope you don't mind. Would have been even duller without them. Don't send me to jail. I don't want to shower with Mr Big. Or play mummies and daddies.

Def, dumb and blinding. Deftones Live Review - Brixton Academy 2013

Deftones *****

Letlive *****
Three Trapped Tigers *****

Brixton Academy 20th February 2013

The night of the Brits. That hollow, onanistic, self-congratulatory jamboree attended by every parasitic, hanger-on, ligger and rictus-grinning plastic poseur in ‘the biz’.

But bollocks to all that. The Sauvignon Blanc, the coked-up kiddies, forced bonhomie and even falser schisms and rivalries are so far removed from chilly Brixton; where, tonight real rock and roll is marshaling its militant and revolutionary army at a convention of true believers in the company of Mr Moreno and his able generals and colonels.

Three Trapped Tigers *****

First to take to the conference platform are the bonkers and brilliant Brits Three Trapped Tigers. Theirs is a complicated and startling manifesto. Largely instrumental (with the occasional harmonic and almost operatic choral intervention), this is a technical, complex, tight as a coelacanth’s back passage, mesmerising and sensorially assaulting address which gets through to the very core of the assembled electorate.

Triggered drops and sub booms evacuate bowels and crush chests. The rally is led by astonishing tub thumper Adam Betts. His drumming is so passionate, powerful, jaw-dropping and heavier than weapons grade uranium. No one could hit the drums any harder. Or more accurately. 

Every hemi-demi-semi quaver and ghost beat are humanly quantised to within previously scientifically undiscovered tolerances. But never clinical or anodyne. Precision yes, but married with passion and playfulness. Think Animal from the Muppets with Popeye’s arms, John Bonham’s power, Gil Sharone’s outré groove and Jimmy Cobb’s touch. 

A rarity to have the drummer as the front man (although that’s unfair on his fellow troika members Tom Rogerson and Matt Calvert to push Betts too far up the party hierarchy, this is definitely a true collective and not just a drum cult of personality), everything they do is rhythmically driven. 

Massive techy, mathy, compound and complex beats and phrases drive this campaign bus. Ably aided and abetted by sub bass wobs and drones, sweeping synthscapes and gutsy an filigree-laden guitar cadenzas. With heaviness aplenty to satiate  and canvas the assembled rock-hungry community.

Throughout, Betts is in the F zone. Focussed. Frenzied. Full-on and fucking fantastic. Driving the whole performance from behind his skinned and tinned control centre. 

The voters seem to lap it up too. Although, with the exception of Betts’s over animated drum work-out (Christmas Fitness DVD opportunity Klaxon), the keyboard-based performance is inevitably reminiscent of Kraftwerk or Fripp and Eno; not quite shoe-gazing, but concentrated and restrained. Difficult to stage dive or hardcore dance while cracking out complex suspended chord progressions and wandering triads on a keyboard or noodling, tapping, sweeping and seducing a Telecaster fretboard.

The crowd were pretty much reduced to nodding heads, stroking beards and grinning appreciatively rather than bringing home the mosh. No matter, a truly captivating, spellbinding and brilliant start to tonight’s anti-Brits celebration. Can’t wait to see them again at the amazing ArcTanGent Festival in August.

Letlive *****
Next preaching and screaming from the hustings are LA post hardcore darlings Letlive. Fronted by the irrepressible firecracker Jason Aalon Butler, they storm straight into a wall of noise to try and animate the now pretty much full Academy.

Butler is like some sugar-rushed, amphetamined-up or superhyperactive dervish with a bag of really angry wasps stuffed in his pants relentlessly stinging at his nutsack. He runs, jumps, hardcore whirls, forward rolls, hops, somersaults and pulls triple salchows as he yells and screams into the cavernous Brixton space.

And that’s about it. Sadly. There’s definite energy and brio in the whole performance, but, whether or not it’s down to the legendarily shite sound sarf London’s most notable aircraft hangar, the band produce a wall of mud to back Butler’s tortured yelps and death screams.

There’s no subtlety. No killer tightness. No sharpness. Just a blunt and sludgy barrage of down-tuned, well, mush. Only briefly relenting for the slightly more sophisticated and nuanced Muther with its insouciant, disaffected nods to melody and harmony and the brilliant, catchy-as-herpes pop punky anthem Renegade 86. Which is a shame.

However, Butler himself doesn’t come out scot free. His screams and banshee wails become wearing when not punctuated by melody or hooks in too many of the songs on show. I’m fond of a damn good scream or yell; in the hands of the monumental Greg Puciato or Eva Spence, a bark, a shriek or a full-on diaphragm-ripping roar is a powerful surgical implement that can destroy and bewilder but simultaneously wring out emotion and awe. 

But tonight, Butler (again, maybe down to the sound) lacks that killer cut-through. And by the time his noise is stuck over the top of the muddy tsunami wave of the band, it’s all a bit disappointing. Think I need to see them again in a small, sweaty club with a killer sound system to get the full effect. The crowd remain largely ambivalent too, which further adds to the overall lack of excitement. As I say; a real shame.

Deftones *****

Right, let’s get the cult of personality bit out of the way up front. Chino is the coolest dude in the world. Fact. He’s the leader of the party. The face. The spokesman. Hell, the president. 

But let’s not forget the rest of his party. This is the coolest band in the world. Fact.

Everything about them oozes cool. Even the uncool bits - like Stephen Carpenter’s combat shorts - are cool. 

So, armed with some new messages from the latest stunning album Koi No Yokan, Moreno and his battlebus arrive in the capital to further spread the word.

One of the remarkable things about Deftones is their constant musical reinvention which doesn’t recode or mutate their DNA. From the early days of Adrenaline and Around The Fur, they’ve kept true to themselves (bar a little record company-forced slide into the morass of nu-metal) and despite well-documented spats, benders, differences of opinion, depression, booze , drugs and, er, tennis, there’s a consistent truth and an honesty in all of their work.

They’ve never relied upon bombast, pyro, Muse-esque animated backdrops, spaceships or gimmicks. They play hard. They play heavily. They play soulfully. They play beautifully. They just play.

And tonight’s no different. For all 20 songs, from the crushing opening of Diamond Eyes through to the bile-ridden and savage 7 Words, they just play. 

The set showcases five tracks off Koi No Yokan among old favourites culled from all of their albums  including Change, Engine No.9, My Own Summer and even Bloody Cape off Deftones and Riviere from the polarising Saturday Night Wrist. And the menu works splendidly.

The crowd are in a lively and loving mood, fanned by Moreno’s surprisingly garrulous, chirpy and chatty mood. Having seen Deftones on many occasions, I have never seen Chino so vocal. And he’s loving it. Swapping hats with the crowd. Yakking about apple juice and Top Man. In his own words, he just wants to talk about it. 

But it’s not the stuff between the songs that matters. Tonight’s show is a majestic collection of strong and subtle. Beauty and beast. Light and shade. Anger and ecstasy.

Every emotion is summoned up. Eyes are closed in reflective contemplation one moment. Arms are open and legs bouncing in febrile excitement the next. This is a masterclass. The perfect exhibition. An object lesson. 

To have survived all these years; survived each other; survived the business, survived the ups and downs shows a resilience and a strength second to none. And on tonight’s astonishing performance, that’s all you can describe this oh so cool band as: second to none.