Brighton's best...
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review "Cowbells!" calls out one overtly enthusiastic member of the audience as the inexplicably named and quite unpronounceable !!! take the stage... "Get yer cowbells out!"!!! tell us that we will soon sicken of the cowbells, and launch into the first of a series of extended, clattery numbers which are indeed punctuated by the clang-clang of said cowbell. "...it’s all white boys playing
energetic, choppy and scritchy-scratchy songs." !!! are not a band I knew much about; save that they’ve been bandying around the “Punk-Funk" label that New York bands like Radio 4 or The Rapture have championed recently. So it’s all white boys playing energetic, choppy and scritchy-scratchy songs that owe more to tribal and dance rhythms than to the pedestrian three-chord thrash of punk; the sort of thing that A Certain Ratio and Talking Heads were peddling back in the late seventies. It’s darn good though. There’s about seven, eight or nine of them on stage, although it’s hard to pin them down to a definite figure as they’re darting about all over the stage changing instruments all the time. The singer will often disappear into the background to bang on a block of wood allowing the guitarist to step up to the front for some vocals, while the keyboard player picks up a guitar. Sometimes this happens mid-song, as a drummer or bass player abandons his position for a quick tootle on a trumpet or sax before dashing back. The drum kit is usually a hive of activity housing three or four of the band adding the danceable percussive element to their songs. They’re really going for it. "...their songs are
so damn danceable." So many members makes for an incredibly dense, layered sound and it’s hard to pick out any individual contribution or melody. The vocals and lyrics are far from memorable, but this rarely detracts, as their songs are so damn danceable. In a set of what seemed to be only five or six tracks I’m told that only two were old songs and the new ones downplayed the funk element in favour of an out and out dance direction. This usually spells disaster for a group, provoking only folded arms and indifference from the audience, but this lot were totally caught up in the clattering dance tunes, loving every minute. Announcement of their last song sets of a chorus off disapproval. Being told that it’s nine minutes long placates the crowd somewhat, but this track, like all the others, seems to zip by in a couple of minutes. And then, after a brief hiatus a guitarist/vocalist/drummer/keyboard player sheepishly informs us that the singer is currently unconscious and they cannot come back for more. There’s more grumbling and a desultory bottle is thrown. Is that it? Will they come back? The lights come back on - so that’s a no, then. Everyone shrugs and gives up, the only bells for the rest of the evening coming from ringing in our ears.
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The London Hotel
