Afro-Futurist, Psychedelic-Hip-Hop-Boy-Band. Phil Spector and Shadow Morton battle Timbaland in a grain silo while Marvin Gaye and Michael Jackson sing encouragement and Ian Curtis and Fela Kuti try (and fail) to find some common ground by the side of the stage, watched by various wives.
Accessing the feminine, soft part of the war-age male, going to war on the stage with invisible demons and staring out at the individual spirits hovering above the audience heads. Distracted, then very involved.
A thin drummer, a mobile tank (a Russian T34) stands at the back, shoulders hunched painfully, wielding huge caveman style beaters – he looks like an escapee from a steampunk dystopia, ’80s Hollywood film version, all angles and elbows, bashing a dustbin. The three young men at the front ignore him, except when things go wrong, then a thoughtful huddle whilst impatient pacing, then exploding on athlete’s legs or melting into the stage floor in a plasticine pose, each worker acknowledging and respecting the other but not, you know, making a big fuss about it all…
Bass like you cannot expect. Everything distorted and PA driven to the edge. Dub spins off syllables, eye contact but no hugs. Love is obviously there but you have to earn it.
Watch people trying to dance trying to watch. an amusing half hour or so.
October 31, 2013
00:10 Gamli Gaukurinn