South Bank Centre, London
19 September 2000
For their third live performance in a year after the seventeen of build-up, Coil arrive onstage dressed in unlaced grey strait-jackets, backed by a neon sign proclaiming the title of the night’s performance, Persistance Is All. The multiple possible meanings of this slogan soon becomes apparent, as the playback of Jhon Balance‘s spoken title beat which opens “Something” fills the “Royal” Festival Hall. The group are backed by a circling corona of fire on the projection screen which soon becomes the visual focus for the set, and this develops into a hypnagogic kaleidoscope show of the first water, trickling retinal patterns like the strongest hallucinogen to the trip-kicking music. Not that drugs are necessary; it’s far more a state of mind on offer through the combination of light and sonic textures – or Colour, Sound, Oblivion as the flashed-up message proclaims (as does the black-on-black T-shirt, the badge, etc. etc.).
Colour plays a key part in the whole; red for the demonic gyres made from swarms of seething computer imagery; green for the new track “I Am The Green Child”, when the previously monochrome op-art patterns become colourfully-edged all of a sudden, as the peak of the trip is implied – or impelled. Blue for the chill of “Amethyst Decivers”, and light and oblivion are to follow. Watching the members of Coil onstage is a once again a peculiar combination of technicians at work and hierophants enacting a ritual – which is not so far from how the best musical performances of any stripe should be at all. Least occupied when not singing and/or invoking is Balance, who wanders the stage, swinging the large lightbulbs dangling low from the roof in small circles, crouching below one as it describes a short arc for a time. Two bulbs break in flashes of lightning, and later one swings perilously close to the metal frames of the instruments. Balance performs some kind of callisthenics, takes a turn around the space between the sharply-angled racks of electronics, twirls the strap of the strait-jacket around his head. Peter Christopherson, Simon Norris and Thighpaulsandra perform their allotted tasks with more attention to their boxes and keys, occasionally gathering to stand shoulder to shoulder admiring their projections when the music can safely look after itself for a while.
Unlike their presentation of Time Machines earlier in the year, tonight’s show brings forth songs from their far back catalogue – “Titan Arch”, enlivened by the excoriating guitar feedback ride Thighpaulsandra evokes, and “Blood From The Air”, one of Coil’s strongest pieces, a searing slow lament on the immanence of death in the world and the sickness of God. Higher beings might command, as another message goes, but Coil may not be obeying. All through the middle section, the group are joined onstage by a xylophonist of great skill, who helps bring these unexpected songs to rattling life, and Balance expresses his surprise to be singing them live after so long. He also takes time to drop a passing curse on Stevo for continuing unhelpfulness in regard to the Coil albums he still controls the rights to.
And the finale, introduced as “Constant Shallowness Leads to Evil” – Coil are having a lot of fun with this Situationist-Occultist opportunity to broadcast billboard-sized thoughts to a crowd, even if they be the readily-persuadable; one of the few traits they share with Psychic TV these days, apart from some of the most effectively mindbending light shows around – and brings things off in a welter of dial-stretching analogue synthesis, urgent rhythms (some crashed out on a sheet of metal suspended behind the electronic setup), and strobes. And more strobes. Plus more, repeated, phased until the room is virtually alight, drenched in brightness and unholy righteous noise. How to take the roof of the hall through thunderous bass tones and distending harsh white light. And their slogan for the end? “God Please Fuck My Mind For Good”. This is the kind of psychedelic dualism Coil unleash through this most enlivening of musics – the sublime and the horrific encased in an onrushing suspension of time through sound. Dramatic and effective, and far fucking IN.
-Antron S. Meister-
Nectarine No.9 are three guitarists, a bass player, drummer and a bongo-man in a floppy fisherman/Raver hat. They make an inoffensive Indie-Rock noise, but not one the least big enough to fill the Festival Hall, or keep much beyond a hardcore audience of already familiar fans in their seats. Quite how they appeared on this bill is somewhat of a mystery. So is…
Foetus
Jim Thirlwell has lost it. I do not mean this in a good way. I don’t recall ever being so disappointed at seeing a performer I have previously enjoyed, going down on the world of Rock ‘n’ Roll so sloppily, so not amusing. O, I can remember back in the day, loving the feeling of letting Mr. Thirwell shock me and bring me to the verge of violent exultation, but his performance this week at RFH was none of that. Had I not been reprimanded to hold onto someone’s coat, I would have left. It was a sad spectacle indeed.
Disturbing though it was to see Foetus set up in such a Rock star stage, Mr.Thirwell (AKA almost anything you can think of) did start out with a big sound, calling many of his faithful followers right down front of the auditorium because in the olden days, it was hard to imagine sitting still with Foetus on. His flash Charlie’s Angel style outfit and hairdo really did put me off right away. The Elvis pisstakes really were better left to Lux Interior. The hired musicians, boring. Really boring. Song after song and cringe after cringe, I lost my sense of humour and guessing from the sidelong looks of almost everyone, I was not alone. Has our Clint Ruin developed an unhealthy interest in Mick Jagger or what?
There was a little bit of a spark of hope when “Saviour” was done, a peak in the pit for “English Faggot”, but all in all this was a boring show. The pre-planned encore included Mr.T. in a silver lamé jumpsuit, looking not much different than well, Mr.T. Too skinny, too silly, too shiny for God’s sake, I really do want to see the humour, but I don’t. Is it that all our Industrial noise heroes have gotten too old and are now living out their boyhood fantasies of being rock stars? At least when Cope did it at Cornucopea, everyone knew it was a silly joke. Jim on the other hand made a fool of himself. O dear, I wonder what the future holds? My sympathies to whoever went to Foetus to experience the blastbombing noise that Jim Thirwell used to provide us. Thankfully, I really went to see Coil.
-Lilly Novak-
