Hype. It’s a powerful thing. But "fresh" and "raw" are the words on the street these days, which is no bad thing, frankly. Despite being round for a while, Brighton-based EIGHTIES MATCHBOX B-LINE DISASTER fit both those parameters, and they do so with a nonchalant clumsy charm that forces a chuckle and warms your cynical heart.
A night at the Scala is always a hit and miss affair in term of acoustics, and last night was a revalidation of that tradition. Take the terrific yet seemingly under-appreciated support band, DEAD KIDS - initially the sound system complemented, and even enhanced their new-wave-rave style beautifully, which was brought to a cheerful crescendo as the energetic lead singer scaled the speakers and balcony in a last-ditch attempt to win the befuddled audience. However, all sound turned to mush when The Box came on. Deliberate the bass-mixed-with-guitar sound may be, still it served to do no favours to the complete musical effect under the circumstances.
Still, on with the show. On came the Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster, to a scorching welcome from the chock-a-block room. An endearingly aloof entrance ensured that acoustical shortfalls or not, the punters LURVED it.
It was impossible to judge the act: a pale Cramps imitation captained by Brandon Lee, or the Mighty Boosh mutated and come alive? The words ‘concept band’ come to mind. ‘It’s not true that we’re mad!’, claims drummer Tom. Well, quite. Merely acting mad. And not with conviction, even. Spitting at the audience? It’s been done. Crowd surfing? Please. Crawling across the stage in mock angst? The only hint at some borderline ‘we-don’t-care’–ness, was lead Guy McKnight’s mooning action as he was looking for the stage exit. Cute.
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But how was the gig, you may ask? Well – it was steadfastly good. The vibes were high - despite the smoking ban - the set was relentless, opening with the good introductory "Horses Can Swim", followed by a sweeping "Mister Mental", and a rather lovely "In the Garden" from their current EP, after which not a dull moment was had, with a real connection between McKnight - who appeared to be constantly on the verge of vomiting, defecating or imploding on stage - and the adoring peeps. Even towards the finish line, the race was going strong with a fantastically bad-ass "Chicken" and a memorable, Iggy Pop-like "Psychosis Safari".
Still, you’re left with an unshakable ‘seen it before’, or even a ‘seen it before, with style’ nagging conclusion that no amount of build-up and guarantees of a bright future can dispel.
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