Half way along Brick Lane, outside 93 Feet East, a few people are shuffled out of the way and up against the wall by a comedy bouncer in an effort to maintain some order out of what already feels disappointingly orderly for this time of the night…hopefully he is anticipating a crowd gone AWOL at a riotous punk gig.
Once inside, it’s an atmospheric venue with low ceilings and a labyrinth of aluminium pipes and fairly crowded with uber cool Shoreditch types who all shop by day and live by night in the surrounding area by the looks of things…same hairdos, same cowboy booted, customised garb…rockabilly stroke country punk revival.
It all seems a bit clean and self-conscious but fortunately supporting punk pop band, KaitO are truly luscious. Hi-energy front girl Niki Colk yelps sexily along with an edgy, rapid rhythm and inspired lead from Dave Lake, while her dark eyed, heavy fringed associate thumbs up a dirty bassline below tumbling drums. Reminiscent in places of The Pixies, KaitO’s set is driving, catchy and fun.
The audience is warmed up for New York’s LIARS. I’m immediately thrown however by the conspicuously un-American tones of the gangly singer…is this or isn’t this Liars? I hope not as I immediately hate them. I’m disappointed. Is this the point? I’m not sure…there are definitely a few excited people jumping up and down.
Clambering on stage clad in a satin pink straight jacket like something out of the Return of the Living Dead, a zombie like front man, who is indeed Liars’ Australian singer Angus Andrew, face hidden behind straggly hair, finds his way (assisted) front stage, frequently leaning out into the audience while the cross-dressed drummer keeps it focussed. Lurching backwards and forwards seemingly in his own transformer world the sound they regurgitate is ear-splittingly loud, hacking, often pre-programmed, danceable beats (hence the comparisons to The Slits and Gang of Four) and screechy sounds accompany Angus’ frenzied, atonal chants such as “I am a boy, you are a girl…” ad nauseam.
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Although I liked the vintage sparkly outfits and admired the performance aspect in an arty, conceptual kind of way, (two of the band members are indeed one-time art students from Nebraska) the long winded, abstract and evocative titles like “They Threw us in a Trench and Stuck a Monument on Top” and “tumbling walls buried me in Debris” etc I can’t understand their sonic appeal but at times, eyes closed and head hung low, my skull numbed out pleasantly to cope with the chaos.
Quoted in The Face as confessing to being “talentless, uncoordinated and uncool” they may be striving in their punk misfit expression to punch some life into the oppressively cool and confined establishment. They’re in the right place. Whether they succeed in challenging the audience to such an extent that wardrobes are reshuffled and the current status quo is ruffled is yet to be seen. It would be a welcome relief if they did.
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