Karnage in Camden - Live review of Karnivool and TesseracT at KOKO

Karnivool *****
TesseracT *****

Koko, Camden, Thursday 21st November

It's time to dive into the winter wardrobe as the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness meanders into the chilly heart of winter. So, what's in the cupboard to keep us warmed?

TesseracT *****

First up are a curious outfit with, on the face of it, well-worn leather and denim but underneath, a challenging and tight PVC thong spiked with shards of steel and doused in deep heat or bleach. Then, like some retro sci-fi B-Movie costume, topped with some sort of cod futuristic shiny space helmet. All a bit weird.

TesseracT are a definitely strange mix. Progressive metal (if that's what it is) is a genre that's kind of got away from me. Add in the obligatory djent bombast and downtuned, hi-gain chugs and punches and the obfuscation only gets more bewildering.



A pretty much full Koko doesn't seem to mind the mismatched eccentricity however and a boisterous and eager early crowd rubberneck and gawp at the explosive couture like the alikadoos and liggers at the catwalk in fashion week. Without the Bolly dahlink. Obviously.


The playing is tighter than a deep sea squid's ringpiece with all manner of polyrhythmic reveries glued together with thunderous bass and precision skin thumping. And there's lots of hair. But now that Ashe O'Hara has imbued the whole output with high quality, clean and melodic crooning, the whole costume has become super-slick; maybe, arguably a little too slick.

It's undeniably brilliantly played and performed throughout - these guys are technically top drawer, it just seems to lack a little edge. The shards of glass and rusty steel need to be rubbed in to the genitals a bit more. It comes over more Jermyn Street silk boxers than tight PVC with a fuck off codpiece.

Still, a great kick off to this evening's parade. If not a little bewildering.

Karnivool *****

It's been a while since we've seen the Aussie proggers on our shores. And marking the launch of their recent tour de force Asymmetry, 'the Vool' finally bring their antipodean dress code out for a catwalk unveiling.

The new album gets a decent airing this evening with 7 or 8 of its tunes welded into the set alongside many old favourites (but no bloody Roquefort, sadly!). And from the off, it's easy to see that they've worked bloody hard on the tailoring and finish.

It's all exquisitely presented, but with enough added 'liveness' to avoid it being a soulless or slavishly flawless run-through of the factory-made prototypes. 

The sound is perfect but not clinical; there's enough of a ragged edge to proceedings to get the heart pounding and not just the head nodding and beard stroking. Saying that, because of the dominance of the new material which obviously hasn't had much time to seep into even the most ardent fan's soft tissue, it takes a while to get going and it's not really until we're treated to the magnificent Themata that things kick off.

It's always a difficult balance; do you open wearing a big old favourite jumper or try something with the label still in the back that you're obviously fiercely proud of and want to show it off? Tonight, the new pair of knickers are the opening choice and, I'm not overly sure it was quite the right choice. 

While the songs on the magnificent album are all of the highest quality you'd come to expect from these WA wizards, they're generally more in the 'grower not a shower' camp -  and until openers The Last Few and AM War have become established favourites and generate the sing backs that Goliath and Simple Boy do, then maybe they should be tantalisingly revealed after the comfy jumper is provocatively peeled off.

That said, tonight's show is fervently and enthusiastically devoured by a lively and loved-up crowd. The best and most accessible new shoes are already becoming new favourites and We Are and The Refusal fit seamlessly among the tried and tested.

The main set does finish rather anticlimatically though with Aeons and it's only when the crowd notice the band aren't actually on stage any more that they realise they ought to politely ask for more. Which is delivered with an amuse bouche in the atmospheric but hardly toe-tapping Alpha Omega followed by the song of the night, the mighty set closer New Day which finally sets fire to this particular Camden hive and turns the packed faux-rococo room into a massive dopamine-drenched karaoke box.

All-in-all a beautifully produced and performed show which dutifully aired the latest creations but was maybe a tad light on the staples and trusted favourites. Or maybe just needed the order tweaking. Gorgeous stuff though. And I didn't mention Tool once. Er...

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.



 

Havana ball. Live review of Deaf Havana at The Roundhouse

Deaf Havana *****
Charlie Simpson **1/2***
Big Sixes ***1/2**

The Roundhouse, Chalk Farm, 25th October 2013

Now, I don't know the chaps (and now chapess) from Deaf Havana personally. I did have a passing conversation with a young and fluidly refreshed J V-G at the Strongbow tent at Sonisphere a few years back, have bumped into Mr Pennells on several occasions while he was doing his other job as a sound jedi at the marvellous Barfly, but having closely watched them grow up over the years, I can't help feeling deeply paternal about this East Anglian bunch of ne'erdowells. 

Having followed them (not in a stalkery or rapey way, honest) from their screamo emo days in rat holes and toilets, via festivals, untold support slots, unplugged recitals in churches and sell out spectaculars at Shepherds Bush, tonight represents a coming of age. A transition. Moving from primary school to big school. Or maybe even packing up the boot of a patched up old hatchback with toasted sandwich makers, food parcels, guitars and Ikea pots and pans and finally leaving the family home. And, it's fair to say, it's an occasion bathed in conflicting emotions.

But before the big event, there's some other friends joining in the graduation. 

First up are Big Sixes***1/2**. Since last time I saw this lot of pleasing, talented and beautifully harmonic young tyros, they seem to have multiplied. It may have been the Chianti and Jager the last time I saw them, but I don't seem to remember being that many of them; whereas tonight, the stage appears filled with bodies. No matter, the output is thankfully unaffected by the proliferation and a well-received smart set of tight and intelligent pop rock gets the evening off to a flyer.

The next friend ringing on the doorbell is Mr Charlie Simpson**1/2**, and he's brought a huge bunch of mates around too. Playing to, by now, a pretty packed cavernous and splendid old engine shed, Mr Simpson and his muckers pile into a lively set of, well, country-tinged, MOR, poppy, Eagles-ish, er stuff, kicking off with the boisterous and rousing sing-a-long Parachutes.

I'm confused though. While he's obviously hugely talented, this style and line up does little, if anything new. The songs are all splendidly crafted, but there's no edge. No lustre. The assembled session men are all clearly brilliant players, but all they really achieve is to pull Simpson's personal and honest songs into a Radio 2 mid morning, backward-looking middle of the road, Snow Patrol-infused greyness.

Simpson appears caught. Still young, it feels like he's been over-exposed to his dad's or an uncle's record classic rock or country record collection and slavishly recreated the anachronistic vibe, rather than mixing in anything new, challenging or different. 

Don't get me wrong, it's far from bad - and the prepubescent crowd don't seem to care where it's come from, they slurp at this saucer merrily - it just feels twixt and between. Neither fish nor fowl. Not far enough away from early Chris De Burgh or America and with that nu-folk, nu-country vibe soccer mom-friendly middleness that seems to be the vanilla de jour thrown in to further neuter any real thrust.

Simpson needs to have a good think. Be painfully and confidently naked. Or outrageous and wear uncomfortable bleeding edge haute couture. Not ham dresses necessarily; just don't be the off the shelf chinos in the middle. Great songs though.

Right, back to tonight's main matter at hand, the continuing rite of passage of young 
Deaf Havana*****

House lights down, Elvis up, then Boston Square in your face. We're off. And so are the baying and adoring crowd. 

And the emotional intensity doesn't abate. Older favourites Little White Lies and I Will Try get fists pumping, hands clapping, friendly pits opening and hearts exploding. A trumpet super-charged newbie Everybody's Dancing And I want To Die keeps the whole thing going set to hyper-power. There's no room for breath (the odd wee technical glitch aside) and James Veck-Gilodi's fabulous voice has seldom sounded better.

The rockier guitars and jagged edges maybe long gone to be replaced by broader, richer and more adult oriented arrangements, but the youthful intensity has thankfully remained intact. Throw in the complete honesty which is encoded on this lot's genome and even though they've matured so quickly, the painful innocence and alluring but stumbling and gauche impertinence of yoof are still etched, like old teenage acne scars, on a twenty something's stubbly chin. The glossy varnish has, mercifully, not smothered the innovative and original craftsmanship. 

Throughout, the older Veck-Gilodi appears genuinely overwhelmed and his normal eloquent and verbose inter-song banter is replaced by a repetitive mumbling mantra about how he (and the rest of the band) are blown away, undeserving, humbled and shocked by the event, the attendance and the fervour of reception. 

It's impossible not to be caught up in the import and emotion of the situation. The hatchback is moving further down the road and towards the motorway paved with fame and fortune. We genuinely are witnessing a seminal and important moment in this charming and engaging band's life.

And to kick dust into already moistening eyes, the bastards produce some sublime emotionally charged heart-bleeding moments; the gorgeous Saved and a slightly more upbeat alternative take on the self loathing and pitying masterpiece Anemophobia being the main emotional thumbscrews. The sing backs are cacophonous and fervent, the whoops, hugs and general love in the room wholeheartedly palpable. This is so very special.

There are lighter moments, the sparkling cover of The Cure's Friday I'm in Love leading the charge. JV-G's apparent Springsteen obsession even manifests itself in a brief cover of the boss's I'm On Fire, but the overwhelming emotional intensity is ever-present.

As the set ends with the magnificent paean to hometown history Hunstanton Pier, it's hard not to start blubbing like a baby who's run out of rusks. And by the time they're begged back onto stage for the last three emotion bombs, I'm A Bore, Mostly (which Veck-Gilodi doesn't truly need to sing as the crowd enthusiastically sing every word back at the tops of their thousands of assembled voices), new favourite Mildred and the plaintive Fifty Four, it's clear the band are no longer our little boy, but a full on hairy-balled, gruff voiced, independent and successful man. Taking of which, slightly mystified (if not a little relieved emotionally) that they didn't perform the stadium friendly anthemic throat-lump-making Caro Padre. But you can't have it all.

There's obviously so much more still to come from these wonderful misfits and miscreants and it'll be fascinating following their adult progress. But for the time being, I genuinely feel like they've left home for bigger and better things. So with a tear in the eye but an enormous throbbing vicarious pride and a firm, manly handshake it's time to let go. 

All the best boys (and girl). All the best.

The Karmathutra. Live review of Delta Sleep at Catch Bar.

Delta Sleep *****

Suffer Like G Did ****1/2*

Our Lost Infantry *****

Catch Bar, Shoreditch, 23^rd October 2013

Trendy old Shoreditch. Downtown Ho Chi Minh City but with beards, bicycles and bellends. And, tonight host to one of the most adventurous and genuinely exciting bills that this achingly self-loving part of town has seen in a while. Like a mini taster or distilled essence of the triumphant Arc Tan Gent Festival (review here) earlier this year.

Catch is one of those long thin, rectilinear penis-shaped venues. The balls are the milling about bit, the shaft, flanked by a long bar - where most of the flat cap wearing, chin-scratching coolites are hanging - and the engorged glans, the bulging pit in front of a wee, but well equipped stage.  A bit like a less well hung MacBeth.

Our Lost Infantry *****

Anyway, it’s pretty much full from its whiffy bridge to its japseye tonight by the time that Aldershot quartet Our Lost Infantry sidle on to face the impressive, throbbing throng.

From the off, they take command of the cavorting. Youthfully and enthusiastically swinging wildly between intricately arousing strokes, sweeps and touches to meaty pummeling and brutal drops, riffs and thrusts.

And it’s insanely satisfying. The harmonies married with techy trips and tunes magic up heady and irresistible rogering, if not, at times more of an excited dry-humping puppy dog than an oiled up, experienced L.A. stud muffin. But what a start to the evening. This is no foreplay: just straight for the G spot.

Lovely to see such young guys producing such sophisticated, intricate but not at all onanistic and ultimately accessible, terrific stuff. More please. But need a quick recovery nap to get the mercury rising again.

Suffer Like G Did ****1/2*

Ok, sap levels restored. Well, as good as it’s going to get. Next on the spotlighted platform of pleasure are Londoners with the splendid House of The Dead inspired nomenclature; quirky, geeky and alarmingly alluring Suffer Like G Did.

Carrying on the sensorial slapping and schlonging little brothers Our Lost Infantry instigated, they produce an absolutely electric, greased up, spectacularly mesmerising and arrhythmia-inducing blitz that leaves even the most hardened beard fondling Joy Of Sex extra look-e-likey (as your dad kids) breathless and flushed.

This is technically brilliant without ever bordering on ‘by rote’ or contrived. It’s a fresh, fantastic, jaw-dropping mash up of seductive funky lines and being stabbed in the ringpiece by fizzing and probing polyrhythms and all manner of adventurous digital  exploration.

At times, there are moments of pure fusion: Al Di Meola, Return To Forever, Bitches Brew era Miles Davis and even Herbie Hancock, but just as you’re settling into the penetrative funky vibe, it all goes Dillinger Escape Plan, Stravinsky and Stockhausen. But without being intrusive or dissonant for the sake of it. File alongside the brilliant Physics House Band and you won’t be that far away.

The playing, interplaying and construction displays a knowing but never self-regarding temporal perfection. And they seem to be blushingly, and uncomfortably, loving it.

The crowd, their supplicant and greedy quarry, is writhing in pleasurable abandon as the cool dudes who are calling all the shots are embarrassedly looking fixedly downwards at their desert boots and hush puppies. Almost blissfully unaware of the super-heated stimulus they’re doling out.

Stunning, beguiling, heart-stopping and fresh. This is modern lovemaking of the highest, engaging and technical order. Oh yes. Yes. Yes.

Delta Sleep *****

By now, we’re all replete. Overflowing. A bit sore. Fulfilled. Leaking. But then another unlikely über-sexy beast armed with all manner of potions, lotions, tinctures, straps, tools, toys and devices enters the boudoir. And won’t take no for an answer.

What ensues is truly x-rated. Rougher, deeper, at times angrier, edgier, more daring, but underpinned with the same consummate skills, trickery and guile the first two lovers had ejaculated upon us. There’s math aplenty, but soused in Meet Me In St Louis or Reuben-like pop punk and alt reveries.

A totally mind-altering, stunning and moving collection of melody, rhythm, harmony, aggression, technical prowess and inventiveness. This is raw, but sophisticated. Rough, but silky smooth. Frenzied but controlled. Bludgeoning but dexterous. And bloody eye-rollingly and chest-blushingly wonderful.

The refrain in Jesus Bill!!!! Gets the limbs, hearts and minds aching with deep joy with every man, jack and Harriet joining in while swinging from the chandeliers.

The band themselves look slightly taken aback at the reaction. We did that? Yes you fucking did. And we want more. More. More…more. No bottom drawer faded and careworn applecatchers here. Every detail of this naughty outfit is designed and delivered to turn on. To excite. Top drawer precision-designed hand stitched erotica. Gulp.

The joy spreads like a voracious and all consuming STD. Before long, everyone is infected. Affected. Satiated. The telepathy between the performers is micro-second perfect and the drumming throughout is genuinely other worldly. This dreadlocked wizard is one of the most laconic, laid back skin ticklers I’ve seen in years, but is truly incredible and provides the batteries and vibration behind the lion’s share of the priapic performance.

By the time the set ends, there isn’t a pore that hasn’t issued, a follicle erected and any naughty squishy bits haven’t got, well squishier. The guys (and gal) seem shocked at the baying and begging entreaties for more and dip back into the love toy bag to produce a triple strength prototype double ended violator of a freshly baked new tune that gives everyone, including the band, the happiest of happy finishes.

Simply unforgettable. Stimulating. And unfair to many other a band. I feel ruined, rooted, loved, abused, seduced and completely spent. Amazing stuff.

I really can't remember a gig of such unrelenting and exciting quality. All 3 bands (apologies to the evening's opening act Adults, The Elderly And Children for missing them, a Vietnamese feast sidetracked me - well a man's got to eat, even in Shoreditch) were of such outstanding quality. While there's challenging, technically masterful and engaging music like this on the scene, then all our wretched lives are saved. Bloody marvellous.

Need a lie down. 

Max Effect. Max Raptor live at The Black Heart, Camden

Max Raptor *****
Love Zombies *****
Spirits **1/2**

The Black Heart, Camden, 15th October 2013

As firework night is nearly upon us, it seems fitting to run the thumb over tonight's sulphurous and cordite-infused explosive neo-punky album launch spectacular with a nod to the memorial of the burning of a catholic anarchist. Obviously.

Spirits **1/2**
Opening tonight's display in the not much bigger than a family firework selection box venue are trio Spirits.  

All fizz and crackle without massive sparkle, they produce a tight, competent, if not slightly derivative, display of power pop rock. There's certainly an edge, they can definitely play, the songs have hooks and energy, but for some reason, they fail to fully ignite the early arrivals.

Not bad, by any means, just all a bit standard. (Well the Standard gag was inevitable, thought I'd get it in the bag early doors - apologies).

Love Zombies *****
Next out of the selection box are the odd looking, potentially thrilling but awfully named Love Zombies. 

Now, I'm not sure anyone here tonight (even the masses of industry luvvies and liggers) would remember the Hornsey art school post punk new wave Rough Trade din-makers The Monochrome Set: but if this lot are trying to garner punk credibility by naming themselves after the second (and frankly bloody awful) album, then they've failed as it's the flimsiest straw that a greasy hand could grasp at. 

So, what have they got in their gaudy selection box to thrill the revellers?

In short, absolutely sod all. A damp, stale, flatulent proto punk, anachronistic squib. Yes there's a bit of an initial  tantalising sparkle in the shape of the enthusiastic Pennsylvanian puppy dog of a front woman. But the blue touch paper just continues to burn with a disappointing, low, spluttering and unsatisfying retrogressive flicker.

Her backing band are a collection of table-top indoor fireworks that have been soused in stale lager. I'm not sure if there is even a modicum of lustre in the first place to be lacking, but the overall effect is just so anti-climatic and flaccid. 

There's absolutely nothing new, relevant or challenging here. It's like the very worst of the NY new wave scene of the early 80s has been cryogenically suspended and tried to be thawed with one Bryant & May slightly damp match.

But, to be fair, our puppy dog ringmaster keeps up the energy throughout, chasing her tail relentlessly and tries to get banter going with the largely disaffected and unimpressed throng. But, sadly, they're just no good.

Oh, and they even have a theme tune. One word: Quixotic.

Max Raptor *****

Rather like at a home bonfire party after your guests have so kindly brought round a bumper family selection box of about three hundred shitey little fart bombs and unsatisfying glowing pixie's bellends, it's time to bring out the throbbing, turgid and explosive good stuff.

The tinderbox that is The Black Heart is now full to the gunwales with expectant and excited boys and girls as the fuse is ignited.

And what we're treated to is one of those compact, intense and explosive fusillades you get from one of those fuck off firework displays in a box that turn back gardens and rugby clubs into domestic versions of Olympic closing ceremonies. 

The set is regrettably very short, but in the words of that weird futuristic Japanese eye maker in Blade Runner, those who burn half as long, burn twice as brightly. 

The brilliant new album Mother's Ruin is represented heavily (as you'd expect from an album launch show) with banger after banger assaulting the senses. The singles Breakers and England Breathes being show stealers. Old faves like The King Is Dead and the eternally splendid Patron Saint Of Nothing have lost absolutely none of their spiky and violent allure and get the crowd finally ignoring the health and safety safe distance instructions.

That said, because the crowd make up appears to be very industry-heavy this evening, the fervour and abandon usually accompanying this lot's travails is somewhat missing. There's plenty of agog, agape mouths, oohs and ahhs and woo hoos but not a whole heap of spazzing or moshing. 

Nevertheless, Max Raptor continue to enthral, entertain, eviscerate and explode on their inexorable rise to wider exposure. Their pointed, thought-provoking, clever and beguiling selection of punky, rocky, poppy, anthemic bombs are sure to light up bigger and bigger displays in the not too distant future. Cracking stuff.

Friends like these. Live review of Funeral For A Friend with Gnarwolves and Polar at The Electric Ballroom

Funeral For A Friend ****1/2*
Gnarwolves *****
Polar *****
Moose Blood **1/2***

Electric Ballroom, Camden, Thursday 3rd October 2013

Once in a while, there's a line up that makes a gig totally unmissable. On the face of it, an unholy cooked up collection of differing and disparate highs, lows, trips and mind blowing oddness: punk, savagery, sophistication, old school, new (pre)school, hardcore, pop punk and post hardcore emo/screamo. Well, tonight ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it's one of those. A fucked up, mixed up, mashed up knees up.

And first up? 

Moose Blood **1/2***
To kick things off from tonight's Mad Hatter's pharmacy a dose of medium strength pop punk. Mildly mind altering but ultimately a lowish potency and pretty much over-the-counter in terms of danger or side effects.

There's not vast amounts of energy or excitement here. But at this stage of their career, they're probably far more comfortable in smaller, edgier venues than a 1,000 capacity vast hall. More milk of magnesia than meth.

That said, the Canterbury-based quartet put on a decent and honest enough show and get a few heads spinning and Vans tapping.

Side effects: May cause tapping of feet while nursing a lager in a snap back. In rare cases may cause a light mosh or fist pump. Mildly intoxicating. Probably best taken in confined spaces. Will get stronger over time. 

Polar *****

A completely different strength and type of substance next. Guildford's very own mainlined hardcore noisy bastards Polar.

A brilliant and savage assault on the senses. This is highly toxic, head-fucking gear. While they've been honing their output and polishing the heady ingredients for their already much vaunted and highly anticipated new release set for next year, they've been cooking up some serious shit in their mind lab. 

The addition of huge sub drops has added a vast new depth and bowel-loosening strength to their already mind-blowing and brutal cocktail. And they've even thrown in, dare I say it, a milligram or two of melody among the mayhem.

Frontman Adam Woodford is in dynamic and amphetamine-like fizzing dervish form. Cajoling the gathering crowd to get involved: and the slick, powerful and super-strength set is inhaled, snorted and stuck up the bum willingly by the hooked and crazed pit.

On tonight's showing, this lot are maturing into a bigger-boned, butcher and broader band by the minute. Having toured with the likes of the excellent Heights and Bleed From Within, you can feel the heavier influence permeating their output. There are even moments of While She Sleeps in the newer, more complete sound and if the new album lives up to the hype, then this fucked-up, honking, roaring juggernaut will only pick up more and more irresistible speed. 

Side effects: Likely to cause convulsions, fits, serious and uncontrolled flailing of arms, legs and genitals. Many users will report involuntary raising of the middle finger, dizziness, tightening of the anus and an urge to lose one's shit and drink a truck load of Jagermeister. Sub drops may also cause involuntary soiling of undergarments. Powerful stuff.

Gnarwolves *****

In the next vial, we move onto a much more curious and intriguing nostrum. A raggedy baggedy, highly intoxicating, head-buggering, sensorially exploding mind fuck. True, honest stripped back, euphoric and joyous punk. 

There's a real earthiness to Gnarwolves. This is no hydroponically grown lab-tested and refined gear. This is straight from the plant. Dirty, strong, heady and bloody deliciously powerful. And guaranteed to make you smile like a loon.

The raggedyness and roughness increases the allure: the perfect antidote to banal, samey, over-polished and over-produced, over-the-counter blandness. 

And it's not just wider classification that this heady mix puts to shame; within the tight and often self-protecting and self-congratulatory genre of pop punk, this hit is the one. It's a different strain to most of the predictable pop punk: rawer, gnarlier, grimier, filthier, er, funner.

Tonight's performance is as good as I've ever seen this lot. Especially given that they're on a big stage in a big room, when their smoke is usually considered best inhaled in a tight, dingy, packed, sweaty bong-sized room. 

But, by now, there's a really decent crowd on the floor and the smiled-doused mayhem and fervent sing-backs that break out are testament to the highly addictive and mind-elevating strength of this loveable but mildly disarming bag of earthy goodness. Wow.

Side effects: Care should be taken when administering this highly powerful and mind-altering mixture: delirium, uncontrollable face-damaging smiling, raucous yelling, spasms, losing bodily control, diving, whirling, losing self control and self respect while dancing like a cunt are all very common side effects. You have been warned!

Funeral For A Friend ****1/2*

So, on to the final dose of wonder on this most intoxicating and perception-widening of sessions.

Over a decade ago, we inquisitively opened a bottle marked with potentially confusing and conflicting ingredients: screamo/emo, post hardcore, metal, punk and a maybe even a few more mysterious constituents. And many were instantly hooked - whatever was in the mixture hit a spot. And hit it hard.

However, it was considered by many as unclassifiable. To some even unpalatable. Too confusing. Too different. Too adventurous. But by now, most sane-minded folk realise just how ahead of their time they were. A point proven by tonight's opening dose of 10:45, Amsterdam Conversations. Their first song ever written together. And it tastes and feels as fresh and relevant today as it did back then. In fact, even fresher. 

It soon becomes clear that tonight's seemingly mis-matched bill is no accident from the apothecary. All the bands here tonight have their hearts and DNA in broadly the same place. 

As FFAF hammer through a bewitching and beguiling 19 song long set, all the emotional responses are triggered. All the influences touted and outed. The rawness is still there. But it's juxtaposed with brilliant and tight musicianship. 

There are heavy bombs, political rapiers, punky, don't-give-a-fuck-finger-in-the-air anthems and it is truly elevating and mind-expanding. From The Art Of American Football, through Best Friends And Hospital Beds to the set closer Escape Artists Never Die: old ones, new ones, really old ones and ones from in between. All greedily hoovered up by the assembled addicts.

Despite inevitable line-up changes over such a long period in the business, the integrity, freshness and originality still shine through and oozes out of every sweating pore. With the irrepressible (stitch notwithstanding) Matthew Davies-Kreye fizzing like space dust and whipping up the packed house of adoring acolytes into a loved-up frenzy.

The crowd's diversity displays exactly just what a cross-over act FFAF truly are. Hipsters, punks, metallers, goths, pop punks, indie kids, dads, granddads and granddaughters but all united like some serotonin-bathed love puddle in total adoration for this most influential and enduring of remarkable class A acts. And long may the addiction continue.

Side effects: In all cases, racing heart, euphoria, feeling of well-being. Spontaneous singing and clapping. Moments of melancholia but accompanied by lucidity and  seeing of visions. Continued long-term use strongly recommended.