|
Tonight, on this much touted 3 band battering-ram of a bill, the
actual music is both as insignificant and passive as it is the most
complacency-smashing and ear-shatteringly important thing you're
likely to come in contact with this year, if not for years to come.
See, as much as its foundations are built on innards-churning guitars
and howling, scythe-like vocal and lyrical stomping, its pulse is
driven by an unmitigated, heartfelt belief, a new feeling of freedom
and community, a desire to go that extra mile in every aspect so
you don't fade into the background, because the background is the
most lifeless, insignificant and pointless place you could end up.
Here are 3 bands who believe, know, they can and probably
will each make a difference. Under these circumstances they
don't need to be that good, the inescapable atmosphere (y'know, the
feeling you always believed gigs could give you, should give you,
but never really did) should take care of that.
 Which
is something The Parkinsons make most use of. Because it's
not that they're bad, far from it - they collar and throttle old
school punk insensibilities, flying round the stage, and through
the crowd, like firecrackers with sparks to spare - but the fact
is they're not the absorbing pyrotechnic car crash we've been told
to expect. And after rumours flying around the country from earlier
dates on this tour and reports of their first chaotic London shows
this all seems a little bit Playschool. No nudity! No violence! No
onstage defecation! Nothing. But still it remains that in intention
and stamina they fit tonight like a studded glove and can only add
to it in that sense, even if they're a bit too straight in another.
Which is exactly what 80s Matchbox B-Line Disaster are not,
because they are quite simply everything. They are the anti-Matchbox
20. They are aspects of all your favourite rockers from the past
50 years. They are blood raw and tender, light and dark, all surface
and all feeling. They play like a drunk Rocket From The Crypt doing
The Verve thrown through the blender by Ministry, but even more punk
and even less coherent. The singer really is Richard Ashcroft's doppelganger
from the 'mad' early years and would give the current version an
electric cattle-prod shock. He clambers into the audience halfway
through, coming practically face to face with Crud, and seeing his
eyes shut tight, his body shuddering to a different beat, calling
out heartfelt inaudibles, there is no doubting that he is a star
and they are one of the most inspiring things we have ever clapped
our retinas on.
Which could have really taken away from Ikara Colt's coming
of age, prove yourself headline tour were they not such a cast-iron
lump of joyous marvellousness. The album 'Chat & Business' has already
established them as hard-line gate-keepers of this Scene With No
Name, really giving it an identity while ushering in the likes of
their touring partners. And they have become 10 times the live band
since we first witnessed them at last years Leeds Festival, when
even then we were shocked stupid by their force. Now there really
is something celebratory about their stride, singer Paul especially
has gone from being on a stage to owning it, swinging from the rafters,
lunging through every blast of intensity. And the likes of 'Rudd',
'Sink Venice' and 'One Note' sound every bit like grubby-gold-plated
art-rock anthems. As is fitting for this pile-up of a gig it climaxes
with a mass stage invasion, bodies slamming into each other, band
limbs occasionally visible. It surely can't get much better than
this. Now there's a challenge. Don't just sit and watch and wait
now. Come on!
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2002© 
|
