The chickenhead-dressed man makes music using his Nintendo games systems, alongside very hard and heavy beats which he then screams over.
Unfortunately, there seemed to be a lack of the paramount Fingathing usually find some three quarters of the way through their show — a zenith that usually exposes itself during the intensity of the track “Superhero Music”.
The anger and blatant vexation in guitarist/vocalist/cacophonist Angus Andrew is strangely offered in insouciant wrappings; the man pissed with a million things often presented himself in a relaxed manner. There were of course violent outbursts of giving his guitar the pleasure of touching the ceiling, and apparently being dissatisfied with drumsticks, he’d use a microphone to smack a cymbal when he felt like it.
I then discovered that the times I didn’t hear such apparent splendour, were times in which I simply couldn’t hear what the fuck he was saying — the lyrics were impeded by intoxicated slurs and whimsical ulilations.
The set was one hour-and-a-half-long intense and engulfing sub-bass assault with a complete wall of wave after wave of the most down-tuned guitar distortion, accompanied by fuzzy white noise and various affecting sounds and howling screeches.
Swelling drones initiated the appearance of the band and for the next two and a half hours came a doomy onslaught of awesomely apocalyptic post-metal.
The robotic central groove of the song had people ducking and jiving in a convulsive manor, as if something was battling to escape from deep inside.
They came onto the stage. They said nothing.
There was then a hastening within this extraordinary collective; they began to form their presentimental prerogative, a seemingly telepathic energy that ultimately enables them to never fail in one of the most prolific doom metal cohesions. For this reason, there would have to be an imbalance in the electro magnetic field of the relevant venue — for it surely is telepathy that constructs the insane coherence featured in the live performance of ISIS.
All comparisons to the The Futureheads should be swept aside, Maximo Park are on their own road. Bring on the album.
It’s certainly more interesting than yet another bastard twanging a guitar; accompanied by drums played in a flat four claiming to be ‘innovative’.
As Beck strummed on his hollowed out instrument, his band took a short siesta, sitting down at a table on stage, complete with food and glasses of wine.
The effect will be less live music, and a greater homogenisation of new music in general.
Devendra is a performer who is able to slow down or speed bits up, to change bits around, and go off on little flourishes on a whim.
The giants of Bristol’s recent musical past have all played here, but Kosheen are shit, Massive Attack have become shit and Portishead and Tricky have just gone. How will the city’s new breed live up to their (mostly) glorious history?