15th Jan 2003

Note to self -
Not exactly sure whether this is what a mailing list looks like, or whether this is what fans of Southern Records look like, but either way they mostly seem to sport thick rimmed glasses and have a penis.

Southern Records Hostile Ambient Takeover #1

Considering that there are women performing tonight, I am feeling a little in the minority here. The male to female ratio at this show must be 9:1.
There are SOME girls in the crowd... it's just a shame that it doesnt take too long to work out that they aren't all here for the music.
The particular group of ladies I have my eyes on are standing between the bar and the stage. One of them, we'll call her pom-pom head for accuracy of description, actually applies spray perfume... IN A CROWD... in doing so she also manages to apply it to the insides of both my nostrils and MY MOUTH leaving a wonderful (and highly recommended) taste - something between window cleaner and toilet fresh.
The ladies then whine loudly about the bar not taking credit cards (or the particular credit cards they are brandishing) and then strop out, demi-shouting back at the room "we're off to find some REAL music".

I'd slowly shake my head and furrow my brow in that disheartened way I often feel when faced with such situations, if it werent for the fact that the perfume flavour has forced me to grimace, gargoyle like for a good ten minutes yet.
Besides... if the girls had wanted to learn a more constructive way of invading space, they would have been wise to stick it out and take heed from the first band I caught this evening, Cat On Form.

The sound tonight it a little muddy and generally not too great but, hell and mercy, give these folks 100 coins for effort! The Cats are one of those few bands who exude a genuinely raw energy (raw in that real punk rock way; raw in a vegan "i eat my vegetables" raw way) and what's more amazing still is that this energy is seemingly channelled via two semi-naked sweaty young men, an equally sweaty young lady and a not so sweaty clothed chap, into some kind of acrobatic punch-drunk, math-rock, post-noise (semi) controlled chaos. They throw themselves about while spitting out reasons to listen, reasons perhaps to still believe that this kind of energy can be anything other than a parody of 70's amphetamine fulled punk or 80's/90's angst fuelled hardcore. That it can be quite real, and now. They'll hammer this home, screaming to the point of collapsing an internal organ...
And it's this that really intrigues me most about Cat On Form. Their onstage performance is aggressive, but it appears to be almost carthartic, a kind of vent. If it's a matter of performance therapy then I dont even want to know what 'issues' this band have.
But it's whether this is truly an expression of inner politics bursting to get out, or just some blatant act of exhibitionism that im not sure about... either way it's amazing to watch, and as every paper that you'll read will tell you - we are a nation of voyers. In which case, Cat On Form have something far more life affirming and potentially inspiring than any Big Brother programme could prevoke in us, and that I am sure of.

Unfortunately, most of the miserable, thick rimmed penis barers just stand motionless, supping on beer or pulling on a fag... im not sure they really get this whole "energy" thing... I get the feeling you could whack them round the back of the head with a copy of the Wire, and they'd keel over like a cardboard cut out or perhaps something weightier, like a bag of spuds. Which really is a shame, because Cat On Form really rock this evening. I may even go so far as to say that this particular performance was the best I have seen them play to date, in fact, hell, I said it and I'll stand by it. Everyone in that room should have been in fits, contorting and writhing and rocking along if not in time, then at least in sympathy. But dont get me wrong. Cat On Form don't appear to be the kind of band you go to see purely so as to shake your brains out of your ear in a headbanging fashion at, they also have their more paced moments. These last long enough for you (and them) to catch a breath, reflect, get a drink.

Headliners, Part Chimp, managed to give me neck ache and a bruised stomach muscle (rendering me unable to sit up straight for two days after the show) by forcing me with mere instruments, to rock out for their entire set. Yep, beginning to end, head bobbing, body flexing. I was there doing the dance of the dying dolphin and all for the love of loud guitars.
Its funny you know... Part Chimp are one of those bands who, and Im not ashamed to admit, I do not own a record by. I have a couple of tracks on mix CDs but I have never gone out and bought a record of theirs. And SHAME ON ME because I quite like them live, and really should help fund these music making jaunts that end in shows so that they can do it more often and all of us can go and jump about like we were 15 again. But... thats not the funny thing (that I was getting to), the thing is that you dont really have to be familliar with them to enjoy their sound or their performace which is pretty rare I think.

Mostly I find that it helps immensly if you are familliar with a band before you see them live, if only because you have something to compare to... (or so you can feel smug when you notice the drummer cock up). Part Chimp's formula is pretty basic, this is the post-rock/hardcore hybrid you would expect from a ligament/scarfo bleedout: a couple of bars of guitar and bass stuff, distressed vocals, foot stomping drums, perhaps a break, a bit of loud quite loud stuff, plenty of screaming, louder, delerious guitars, the end. They sweat like pigs, roll about the stage like hungry honey bears and look pretty much like every guy that has ever served you in Selectadisk, and this is ALL GOOD. This is why I like Part Chimp.

The Hoxton Haircuts who had turned up hoping for another 93 FE electro-clash trend setting party-hard were clearly left bemused by such sights, giving a mixture of stern and nauseus looks to the pogo/trobbing/hair-whippers that formed a tightly packed throng at the front of the stage, and indeed, also at the band, who were ripping chords through the speakers at a pace.
But that was fine, who needs Haircuts anyway (apart from maybe, the Datsuns)?
By this point my stomach-strained endorphins had kicked in and as I damaged my body further by jiggy-ing harder than I would normally muster, I was grinning like an ape myself. Ho. Ho.

Hostile Ambient Takeover #2 >>