Friday, 28 November 2014

Applied maths. Advance maths. Pure maths. Pure genius. Live review of Axes, Delta Sleep and Wot Gorilla

Axes *****
Delta Sleep *****
Wot Gorilla *****

The Islington, Friday 7th November 2014

Before I embark on any word burps or farts about tonight's astonishing and peerless show, I must apologise for the math-heavy title of this post. And have a bit of a hackneyed and well practised rant. Bear with me.

Now I think I have the broadest musical tastes (well apart from most Hip Hop ) and my church's doors are open to a plethora of genres. But therein lies the problem: the genre. 

The music industry's (and fans') obsession with narrow-minded taxonomy, classification and pigeon-holing. The never ending onanistic and pointless game of prefixes, suffixes, post this whatever core that. Mind numbing and frankly lazy and diverting.

Ok, in a watery vapid defence, it could be said that it helps as a reference point when trying to describe bands' oeuvres and vibes. And a broad-based signposting can be handy when deciding what to listen to or watch. But, when music is as spellbinding, multi-layered, complex, fragile, brutal, experimental, fresh and exciting as the fare on offer tonight, it makes a mockery of the whole obsession.

Whether tonight's actually quite disparate bands benefit from, like, agree with, adhere to or totally abhor the label, the 'math' thing seems to be an indelible and as difficult to shake as chlamydia or genital warts. 

So, whatever they all are, math, prog, nu-progcore, pseudonoiserock, postmindfuckmathfusionjazzrockaltcore on a fucking hook, matters not jot. For only the second time ever in the thousands of shows I've attended since the 70s, I've been exposed to three five star performances on such a jaw-dropping and magical bill.



Wot Gorilla *****
First up are Halifaxters Wot Gorilla.  A fire and brimstone trio who peddle impossible rhythms and all manner of technical chicanery.  All cleverly fused with catchy tunes, melodic reveries and poppy and rocky sensibilities with heavy interludes, mesmerising playing and hypodermic sharp vocals.  And the result is simply breathtaking.




The playing is impossibly tight. There's a telepathic understanding between the three wizards which all the hardware and digital soul-reaping software in the world couldn't get close to matching. Every note, or section of a note is nailed to within a billionth of a gnat's dick hair. But it doesn't feel counted, quantised, sanitised or triggered, the true musical heart beats loudly and polyrhythmically at the core of real, hummable songs.

There's a proggy  DNA coding their chromosomes (not a true surprise given the band's early Genesis influenced nomenclature)  but it's not shoe gazing wanking in a circle. There's genuine accessibility and even broader 'mainstream' appeal popping up all like goosebumps all over the flesh.

Vocally there's more than a nod or resemblance to Coheed And Cambria (mercifully minus the fantasy comic book guy weirdness) or The Mars Volta. Lyrically, the material is spiked full of contemporary cultural references and relevance. In short, this cocktail is just about perfect. Complex yes, but delicious, warming, mind-altering and intoxicating. Just brilliant.




Delta Sleep *****
Next is the turn of Delta Sleep and their newish line up (new thing banger and low-end plucker) to take to the boudoir styled womb red bedraped stage. And, to be honest, they must be a little concerned about how to follow the wizardry and hemi-demi-semi-quaver perfect performance from Wot Gorilla.

No need for concern. They launch into a masterclass in alt vibe-infused gorgeousness. Slightly more stoner-relaxed than than the gorilla boys, but just as sensational. There's new material on show tonight and it's every bit as mesmerising and enthralling as the work on their incredible Management ep which pretty much makes up the rest of the bewitching set.


Broken strings (beautifully and professionally dealt with) aside, this is near as godly perfection as live music gets. Staggering symbiotic and telepathic tightness, incredible musicianship and wank-free virtuosity all woven into off kilter, thought-provoking and delicious songs. Yup, songs. Some even with choruses.

At this point, I can't actually ever remember being at a show that's just so breathtaking and smile-inducing. My mouth and face ache so much from swinging between hanging agog and cracking with delicious grins and my jaw feel like Luscious Lynda XXX's after the world fellatio championships. 


The new line up, coupled with the new songs signals nothing but the rudest of health for this slightly crusty but truly original quartet. Their alchemic combination of almost grimy punk with the choppy, syncopated mathy sorcery laden with taps, pulls, sweeps, melody, quirk and mysterious arcane dark arts held together with a magical (poly)rhythm section seriously sucks the air out of one's lungs. Truly magical.



Axes *****
Surely, things can't continue at such a ridiculously rarified and elevated level? Can they? Can they?

Course they can. And how.

Next up are the edgy, wild, unhinged, joyous and brain-melting quartet Axes. Fresh from the release of their stunning new long player Glory, they climb into  blistering set of technically perfect, chest thumping, genre-defying, mixed-up, head bobbing, ziggy-zaggy, uppy-downy, cerebellum-fucking, mouth-opening, well, er, glory.

The tightness that's welded together all tonight's performances is right at the surface again. One half a beat out and things could easily become shambolic. But there's not a hope that'll happen. It's simply note and beat perfect. 

Glued unbreakably by shuddering and temple-punching bass, the twin guitars take the full house on a psychedelic, lobe-scrambling white knuckle ride with more ups and downs than a week with Stephen Fry and a bowl of quaaludes and goofballs. Stunning. Eyewatering. Testicle-tightening. Brilliance.



By the time a proper (unexpected) encore scorches the assembled faces for the last time this evening, it's time for the hardest fall of any post-gig comedown I can recall. 

This was as good as it gets. No, seriously. I know in the world of editor-free, crowd sourced, co-created, open content on the tinterweb, there's no blue pencil hovering over every unsubstantiated superlative and it's easy to get carried away. But, honestly, tonight has not just raised the bar, it's catapulted it up towards that asteroid thing to join the probe that's batteries have conked out.

The three bands tonight, be they math, mathcore or fucking altmathpostcranialpostcoitalpostmanpat have delivered one of the very best shows I have ever attended. Simply amazing.


Saturday, 22 November 2014

Twin turbos: live review of Twin Atlantic & The Xcerts at The Roundhouse

Twin Atlantic ***1/2**
The Xcerts *****
The Roundhouse, Chalk Farm, Monday November 3rd 2014

Two bands. Both Scottish (ish). Full house. Chalk Farm. Caledonian invasion. Here goes:




The Xcerts *****
Three piece. Grunge pop. Huge sound. Ebola catchy. Brilliant album. Stadium bound. Big tunes. Sing along. Mann  Equin. Woo woo. Ooh ooh. Song craft. Energy brio. Top blokes. Tom Petty. Blue collar. Sardonic wit. Open hearts. Laid bare. Honest integrity. Lyrically smart. Edgy charm. Warm reception. True class. Big future. Bloody fantastic.



Twin Atlantic ***1/2**
Bohemian Rhapsody. Brave intro. Huge anorak. Packed house. Full on. Stadium friendly. Adoring throng. Old songs. New songs. Big songs. Fizzy knickers. Sing backs. Community karaoke. Beast myself. Heart soul. Growing up. Inexorable rise. Rosy future. Show men. Power pop. Future headliners. Festival favourites. Flowery wellies. Radio friendly. Nothing unlikeable. All good.


Saturday, 15 November 2014

Nightmare of a day - Live review Nightmare Rocks in Camden

Nightmare Rocks *****
120 bands. 20 venues. 1 day. 1 bastard of a hangover. 120 words.
Various venues, Camden, November 1st 2014

It doesn't seem that long ago that we were scuttling up and down Camden's rat run for the brilliant Camden Rocks in the summer. Well, we're all back. And so's the sun. In November. Weird.

In the spirit of today's relentlessly punishing festivities with 120 bands peppered all over NW1, I'm going to pointlessly and breathlessly keep 120 words for each of the acts. Right, I'm going in.


Agent *****
The Underworld

First on. Devil's own slot. Sadly pretty empty room. But huge proggy, trippy, spacey, djenty, tecchy sounds. Not at all bad actually. Moments of Tool and Karnivool. Odours of grunge as well. At times reminiscent of Queens Of The Stone Age if they actually grew some proper gonads. A bit light on hooks or refrains. But, as I say, proggy stuff, so labyrinthine meandering melodies more the order of the day. There's  a screen showing the direct feed from the inside of a meth head's bonce to add to the bong-infused headiness. Strange choice as a first up act. Not really a party starter. Too classy. Too complex. In short, too good.  But a really brave and laudable start. Man.



Leviathan ***1/2**
The Jazz Café

Never heard of them. And with the moniker they've got, was expecting a Mastodon/Krokodil/Bovine kind of vibe. How wrong. What we've got is a dirty bastard scuzzy trio banging out a grit in the foreskin, dirty, bluesy, funky concoction that really is captivating. A grungy throwback lead guitarist and gruff but explosive vocalist rips into all manner of filth including a mesmerising and funked and fucked up version of Sabbath's The Wizard accompanied by some solid tub thumping and an über dude on a Rickenbacker providing great counterpoint, grinding bass and surprisingly tight as an amoeba's arse harmonies. It's an unholy mix of Nirvana, Rory Gallagher, Budgie and even hints of The Jam. A bit bonkers. But a bit good.



Du Bellows ***1/2**
The Proud

Regrettably, a pretty empty room. Mysteriously no drummer. More booze. Dog-on-a-string guitarist. Dreads. Bare feet. Sassy Welsh front woman. Huge, gorgeous, powerful voice. Reminiscent of Chicken Shack or Early Fleetwood Mac with spacey Fairport Convention wisps and strands woven into a bluesy, folky, stoner loveliness. Packed like a Camberwell carrot full of soul, sass and mind-altering trippyness. Although (maybe due to today's lack of a tub thumper) a little ramshackle and loose at times. A real comfortable cardy or care-worn, rock-burnt afghan coat of a band showing their forefathers' and mothers' influences by dipping into ma and pa's old vinyl collection, mixing it all up, packing into a bong and firing the beauty up for a brain calming feel-good session. 



Death And The Penguin ****1/2*
The Proud

Art school. Math school. New school. Smart school. Blimey, what a grin-inducing, pleasant surprise. A brilliant set full of angular, polyrhythmic, über-tight, clever, beautifully played and energetically performed mathy splendour. Fresh, challenging, original and spellbinding trickery and fuckery. There's a real endearing intelligence to this quartet's work. Complete with ironic bow ties and 6th form common room geek chic. There's more than a trace of Everything Everything or even Franz Ferdinand (if they were actually any good!) mixed with Delta Sleep or Tellison and even a bit of OK Go. There's more chop than a Karate competition in an abattoir  all deliciously served up with mesmerising harmony and counterpoint with poppy hundreds and thousands sprinkled on top. Absolutely bloody 
delicious.




Calling All Cars *****
Dingwalls

Thankfully, more than quite a few have slipped down the gullet into the subterranean gloom of Camden's bowels for this brotherly love-led Bristolian-based Oz trio. Quite simply why this band aren't huge is just mystifying. Hayden Ing is a born front man and backed by his brother James on 4 strings and the Bonhomesque skin smasher (he even sees off a snare this afternoon) Adam Montgomery they reek of stadium or huge halls. The music itself is massive. Joyous. Fresh. Unfettered rock and roll, crammed with hooks, riffs, melody, harmony and napalm-enriched face-melting power. Ing's vocals are flawless even though he throws himself around like a cattle-prodded mudskipper, performing from the crowd or even up a ladder (you 'eard). Fanbloodytastic.



Max Raptor *****
The Underworld


120 words. Go:

Hot. Packed. Frenzied. Energetic. Clever. Dry. Witty. Powerful. Fun. Chinese. Gervais. Sorry. Cider. Mosh. King. Dead. Tight. Fresh. Heavy. Showmen. Sardonic. Wry. Dance. Shout. Cajoled. Seduced. Thoughtful. Evangeline. Heart. Passion. Bombast. Punk. Rock. Original. Savvy. Riffs. Bombs. Guts. Evacuation. Skidmarks. Oops. Fervour. Belief. Boner. Wide-on. Phwoooar. Honesty. Integrity. Performance. Grit. Political. Anger. Ire. Intelligence. Beguiling. Frenzy. Gyrating. Response. Sing-a-long. Whooooa. Oooh. Anthemic. Powder. Wine. Sweat. Foist. Crowd. Surf. Yell. Drop. Bombs. Respect. Heart. Power. Meat. Raw. Fisting. Ouch. Vim. Vigour. Tune. Hook. Chorus. Melody. Anger. Principled. Smart. Savvy. Party. Dance. Clap. Scream. Dive. Pit. Delicious. Strong. Dark. Punch. Gonads. Kiss. Neck. Contrast. Handshake. Bird. Hug. Strangle. Seduce. Defile. Smile. Grimace. Love. Hate. Barrel. Wave. Two. Fingers. Proud. Brilliant. Fuck. Yeah. 




Brawlers *****
Electric Ballroom

Yup, red beanie-toting frontman Harry George Johns is one of those ludicrously passionate, born-to-be-a-star types who bleeds music, but the sad fact is, his band is, well, a bit meh. Derivative and regressed-to-the-mean pop punk adding so little of anything new. Ok, there's melody and the occasional hook in here. But it's all so bloody me-too. Johns has the energy. He's got the neck. The star quality. but that's about it. The crowd (even the ones who are questionably manhandled to the floor by Johns) seem to share my opinion. A glazed, cider-induced smile or two and the brave attempts by a couple of fancy-dressed moshing chickens aside, no fires are lit in the cavernous hall this afternoon. Real shame.  



InMe ***1/2**
Electric Ballroom

Feels like the whole InMe army are packed in. And they're treated to a brief but blinding set of alt metally, dazzlingly played artillery lobbed into their adoring midst. However, although I've long been a fan, I can't help but feel that tonight is all a little 'knowing'. Introducing rarely played backnumbers is a treat for die-hards; this is a festival. Maybe (no matter how much Dave and the lads must hate trotting them out) a couple more 'big ones' like Single of The Weak and  the one that kicked it all off, Underdose could get an airing, given that despite the fan-dominated room, there are a shitload of newbies here tonight. Minor gripe, but it feels like a convention rather than a celebration. Bloody good though. As always.



The Hell *****
The Underworld.

120 words you say? Ok:


CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS.CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. 
SPASTICS.



Allusondrugs ****1/2*
The Underworld.

The last 120 words. In twos.

Last minute. Rhino replacement. Top blokes. Leeds lads. Bong water. Grunge infused. Empty room. Huge hearts. Tight as. Big tunes. Hilariously dry. Energetic bounce. Rock Roll. Likeable engagement. Great musicianship. Cousin It. Fun frenzy. Loud proud. True heart. Good songs. Party hearts. Catchy chlamydia. Roller coaster. White knuckles. Punk soul. Fucking fun. Dance inducing. Smiles grins. Big bollocks. Genuine talent. Original new. Fast furious. Hummable memorable. Light shade. Dark bright. Genuine passion. Feeling pissed. Shot arm. Pick up. Guitars loud. Loving it. Show men. Hundred percent. Respect due. Sweat brow. Giving all. Last act. Huge day. Broken liver. Fantastic fun. Brilliant acts. Live music. The Best. Totally fucked. More cider. Another Jager. After show. Hang over. Love it. Need sleep.


Bit of a gallery:






Friday, 24 October 2014

Definitely. Not maybe. Live review of Maybeshewill at The Garage

Maybeshewill *****
&U&I *****
Flood of Red *****
Waking Aida ***1/2**

The Garage, Islington, 17th October 2014

Dear brethren, on a pleasantly balmy autumn evening, we are gathered here today to give thanks to the music gods for the rich harvest laid before us. 

Who'd have thunk it, but we have a sell out for an evening of post and alt rock. You 'eard. A sell out. A full house. A brimming, drooling congregation of zealots, acolytes and good people (mostly with beards) gathered to celebrate the off beam. The challenging. The underdog. And, brothers and sisters, it feels bloody liberating.



Waking Aida ***1/2**
First to the pulpit are genteel post rockers Waking Aida. Pretty much from the same clan and gene pool as Maybeshewill, they kick things off with a seductive set of soundscapes, noodles, time signature tomfoolery and lush pads. 

Nothing too novel or startling, but a solid and thoroughly enjoyable first reading to kick off evensong.



Flood of Red *****
With the second reading from the book of Caledonians are Airdrionian alt rock tunesmiths Flood of Red. And we're treated to a spellbinding and intoxicating performance full of spiralling textures and meaty melody with big swollen balls. And all topped off by the almost angelic and seductive vocals of sideways-facing Jordan Spiers.

It's a heady and evocative mix. Great swathes of superb musicianship, huge, anthemic tunes and deep, almost menacing heavy thunder painting an almost menacing biblical scene with Spiers' shaft of heavenly light cutting through and delivering salvation. A Flood of Old Testament proportions indeed.




&U&I *****
Next to preach to the agog congregation are the delightfully mixed up and agnostic &U&I. Tonight, they feel like a guest reverend from a hardcore fanatical or fundamentalist church among the other generally lilting and charming homilies. They deliver spit and fire. Brimstone and ball crushing, acerbic fervour. And it's brilliant.

Tighter than a 70's male TV presenter or DJ's ringpiece every time the doorbell rings, the trio produce a surging maelstrom of mathy mayhem with every stop, beat, fill and ghost note nailed to within hyper a quantized microsecond. There's so much skill on offer, yet it never sounds mannered or sanitised. 

There's roughness aplenty. But mainly vocally through screams and hellfire yells as a counterpoint to the mesmerising playing and head-spinning precision. And it works a treat. Oh yes.



Maybeshewill *****
So, the readings have been delivered. The offering received. The heady incense burned. It's time for the main sermon.

As the first tantalising notes of the opening to the phenomenal album Fair Youth ring out and then mutate into the majesty and splendour of In Amber, it's clear that this is no ordinary priest; it's pretty much as close as we can get to The Big Man himself making an appearance. Holy fuck.

Everything here is as close to perfection as humble mankind can get. The raw nerve-shredding might and spine-tingling beauty of the Leicestershire quintet's work is definitely as near as dammit a religious experience. 

How on God's earth can instrumental music generate so much powerful emotion? When Mozart sat hunched at his candle-lit dais banging out his melodic masterpieces, he can only have dreamt that those same twelve notes he banged on about would still be being arranged a couple of hundred years later with the same fervour and heart-shifting splendour but with relevance, modernity and originality. Shivers.


And to make things even more unfairly goosebump inducing and heavenly, tonight the lads are occasionally joined on stage by a perfect horn section just to wring more joyous tears from the bewitched and converted apostles. Everywhere around there are lumps in throats and pants, moist eyes and erect neck and arm hairs. 

The band themselves appear far from oblivious to the collective joy and fanaticism; they seem genuinely touched and even taken aback at the fervour and dedicated appreciation pouring forth from the converts at their feet.

They're all big tunes tonight, but the really 'big' ones like Red Paper Lanterns, To The Skies From a Hillside, Critical Distance and Not For Want of Trying bring the chapel walls down. In fact the whole town's walls. There are crowd surfers (yup, at a post rock show!), gyrating pits and general joyous and unbridled mayhem as each delicious chord progression, arpeggio and module milks us all dry.



The lads  return to the stage after the thunderous and passionate collective entreaties of the baying crowd before finishing the service by delivering the coup de grace He Films The Clouds Part 2 with its sampled voicy bit which turns the awestruck mob into a massive community choir belting out every word with football fan gusto.


As the final arpeggio fades into the ether and the crowd erupts for one last time, it's apparent that we've been in the presence of something almost spiritual this evening. A mesmerising, rousing, hugely emotional and moving miracle. At the risk of sounding like some sort of fucking Jehovah's Witness or cod Missionary: You need Maybeshewill in your life. See the light. Let them in. A-bloody-men.













By the way, in no way am I religious. I concur with Mr Steven Fry: "Religion? Shit it!" Just thought I'd better clear that up.
But if there was a God, he probably is 5 guys from Leicester.

Wednesday, 22 October 2014

Marmolized. Live review of Marmozets at The Scala.


Marmozets*****
Lonely The Brave *****

Scala, Kings Cross, London, Friday 10th October 2014

As the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness stumbles towards that ceremony where we burn effigies of Catholic conspirators and spend fortunes filling the sky with cordite and burning holes in wooly gloves, it seems only apposite to draw an autumnal parallel between tonight's pyrotechnics and the impending night of the roman candle.

So, let's get the taper lit, the pets behind the sofa, the biscuit tin of air bombs and bangers out from under the stairs and get things lit.



Lonely The Brave *****

First to be thrust into the bucket of soil to be sparked up on this alternating headline tour are Cambridge's movers and shakers Lonely The Brave.


It doesn't take long for the fuse to crackle into life and deliver its charge into the beefy payload as a huge sound cascades all over the packed confines of this grand old, whimsical venue.

As fireworks go, Lonely The Brave are a slick, impressive well organised display bursting with oohs and aahs, filling every corner of the space with impressive and gut-vibrating booms and a glittering smattering of pomp.

However, if there's one minor gripe, this son et lumiere, while full of grandeur and spectacular fizz, gets, well, a little repetitive. The songs, while pretty much all stadium-friendly anthems and chest-beating canon fire lack a little nuance or definition. A bit like a really impressive long series of dazzling bright white Chrysanthemum-like fusillades; although captivating and hypnotic, it feels like there's a need for the occasional change of pace. Of colour. Of, dare I say it, key.


That all said, like any band with an original or specific sound, the line between trademark oeuvre and repetition is a difficult and precarious one to tread. Muse, U2, Biffy et al all emanate a clearly recognisable scent and it doesn't seem to have harmed them all too much. Anyway, it's horribly unfair to unduly criticise a band so early on their journey and without a whopping sac bulging full of backed up goop to draw upon.

It's such an engrossing and explosive show, that the always slightly rum positioning of singer David Jakes behind the guitars isn't particularly noticeable here, camouflaged by the cascading joy, emotion and explosions, he delivers a pretty much flawless vocal performance which is helped out in the big sing-a-long bits by the gawping display watchers.

A crackling and cracking set which clearly puts this lot in the big cabinet of fuck off serious fireworks behind the counter and certainly hints of even bigger and brighter things to come. I just hope they do dip into the weird and wonderful, slightly more challenging and dangerous part of the chemistry set to change things up just now and again. 

Fiery and impressive stuff though.



Marmozets*****
As the lingering cordite and last wisps of Lonely The Brave smoke swirl into the Kings Cross sky, it's time for tonight's main display. Once again, the powder keg of a room is as full as a fat chav's grey sweatpants. And just about as hot. And stickily sweaty.

The lights dim and we're off. Right from the off, there's a different air. A different energy. Whereas Lonely The Brave were more pomp and circumstance, Becca MacIntyre and her  ragbag collection of MacIntyre and Bottomley brotherly miscreants are more downtown Helmand. Full on, gloves off, pin out relentless bombast.

Kicking off with the Ebola grade infectious Born Young And Free, the place melts down in the face of the incendiary assault. MacIntyre's voice has never sounded better. Swinging effortlessly between pitch perfect cleans and testicle rearranging growls and screams, the diminutive Tyke-ess leads her likely lads unquestioningly and loyally over the top into artillery saturated action.

The set unabatingly keeps delivering spectacular explosion after spectacular explosion. The variety box that is the brilliant new album (The Weird And Wonderful - definitely cemented as one of the albums of the year) is virtually emptied of one fizzing banger after another.


But this is no spluttering, crackling family selection. Oh no. This is weapons grade stuff. Massive thunderfucks. Laced with the heaviest of metals, jizz, shards of tortured Sheffield steel, bile, phlegm, napalm and face-melting lava. Like some sort of fierce, snarling pyroclastic flow, engulfing all in its path while sardonically and mischievously flicking the middle finger up as it passes.

Not some dad-lit 3 inch fizzling back garden Mount Vesuvius, but the raging hard on of the real thing; right in the hellish pit of the ejaculating crater. And it keeps coming. The malevolent album title track, the angsty Why Do You Hate Me and the drop tuned majesty of Hit The Wave keep the bombs raining in on the shell shocked, sweating, writhing hordes.

But like all pyrotechnic displays, it has to come to an end and seems too short. And, as a first album band and with only a couple of handfulls of previous math fuckery at their disposal, 10 songs is about as much as we can hope for. But with two last songs like the brilliant blitzkrieg of Move Shake Hide and the astonishing neutron bomb set closer Vibetech there's no feeling of being short changed. 

The B52 delivered Vibetech leaves a huge circular crater on the floor as a spastically frenzied circle pit opens up to accompany the mathy, Dillingeresque explosion that wrings the last drops of sweat from the adoring and by now mutilated crowd.

Tonight, Marmozets have moved up a notch and rightly can take their place among the very best of British live bands, in fact, fuck it, among the very best live bands full stop. Their energy, tightness, melody, technical ability, maturing songcraft and integrity sets them apart from the pack by a country mile. Brilliant, bewildering, explosive stuff.

Boom indeed.