It seems that word’s been getting around about Los Cripis, Argentinian purveyors of primitive punk pop, as the little venue’s fair heaving. Impressive for a Tuesday night in York at the start of the holiday season. Mind you, it’s a pretty impressive lineup: London/Brighton duo Dog Legs have been building a reputation, and Junk – yet another project of ex-Federal Danny Barton – have also very quickly established themselves as a band to see.
But what’s this? Will someone get this guy a guitar tuner? And a chord book? And perhaps a bucket he might have a hope of carrying a tune in? Hi-Fi, Lo-Fo, No-Fi’s just fine with me, but for some racket there’s just no excuse.
Thankfully, Junk prove themselves to be anything but trash. The around the edges roughness is endearing, and the bassless power trio (drums, two guitars and gloriously harmonising male / female vocals courtesy of Estella Adeyeri and Sam Coates) are deceptively tight: the chemistry is obvious. They use it to draught out magical, breezy songs that blend elements of vintage indie and 60s psych pop into a deliciously refreshing cocktail.
Refreshment’s what we need tonight: it’s got to be 30 degrees Celsius and 95% humidity (at least) in here and I’m sweating out my cider faster than I can drink it.
Dog Legs may have the smallest drum kit I’ve ever seen on a stage, but they kick out a serious riff-driven racket and heat things up yet further. Favouring quiet/loud verse/chorus dynamics and again displaying a keen pop sensibility, they’re the the perfect collision of Nirvana and Shonen Knife. Quirky, whimsical, noisy and fun, their set’s far too short and they decline calls for an encore. Of course. Always leave ‘em wanting more.
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On the subject of more, Los Cripis know that less is more. If they had a band motto, that would probably be it. Their album titles are brilliant in that they’re so unpretentious and descriptive: their latest offering, ‘Long Play’ follows the cassette and MP3 only albums ‘Our First Album’ and ‘FAT’. They don’t go effects: no pedals or trickery, just two guitars and drums by way of instrumentation, plus vocals. It’s all they need to create wonky pop wizardry.
Regular drummer Marta has a substitute who not only plays tight but looks like the happiest man alive, and the band collectively emanate a sincere joy as they toss out oddball lo-fi tunes. The joy’s as infectious as their songs are primitive and stripped back. They don’t piss about: they just get up, play, and play. No pretence, no posturing, just back-to-back golden nuggets and gloriously rough indie diamonds. The experience is uplifting. Slanted and enchanting, Los Crips are the perfect cult act – and best of all, they probably don’t even care.
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