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Alright then New York, so you got the style, you got
the hype, you got the retro cool, the swagger, the skuzzy
out-there drug-fuelled clout, you've certainly got our
attention and hell, on top of that you've even got a
few tunes between you. Come on England! Answer back,
for God's sake! Where the hell are you!? Well, as it
happens, right now they're here in a glorified village
hall of a club in Camden shredding the stage into bruised
submission on an otherwise sodden and deathly dreary
Wednesday evening. That's where. London's Ikara Colt
are still pretty much a mystery to most, but if they
carry on making such an impassioned racket, as they
do in veritable spades tonight, they certainly ain't
going to remain that way for too long. New Where? And
you can quote us on that.
Guitarist Claire Ingram plays like her guitar's just
been knocked over the head with a breeze-block, thrown
into a sack, bound up and bundled into the boot. Bassist
Jon Ball lurches awkwardly, but not unimposingly, forward,
his head down all the way, looking like Shaggy (and
that's as in the cool one, from Scooby Doo) leading
The Ramones. Slight powerhouse drummer Dominic Young
looks like he's on Red Bull, Viagra, espresso, Pro Plus,
a potent amphetamine cocktail, and then some, playing
his kit like it just cursed his mother. And then modestly
confident frontman Paul Resende stumbles randomly between
Mark E Smith's frothing-at-the-mouth gusto and Bobby
Gillespie's rawest swagger with that near forgotten
quality of stripped down unabashed indie cool.
Hell, if they were all a bit more polite and demure
they could almost be The Strokes, without the rich parents,
private school education and fashion industry links.
But polite they are not. Brutal, uncompromising, hard-edged,
full on, arty and underground, yes. That may all mean
front-cover hype, overnight widespread success and videos
played on kids TV may all elude Ikara Colt, but isn't
that a relief. When you crave a band that can really
stick to their guns, be viciously, violently to the
point, hurl frightening hooks out without being vaguely
pop and still look strikingly independent without a
loss of depth, a band like this is the only antidote.
First single, the fiercely bumpy 'Fall' with a smile
on its face 'Sink Venice' signs off the set in no uncertain
terms. They'll be back.
James Berry for Crud Magazine© 2001
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