by Freq | 2017-12-04T23:59:02+00:000000000231201712 23:59
1 December 2017
Tucked in to the stage edges, Modulus III were a threesome of dual synthesizer drums and the rub of a cello, they cruised through some lovely motorik hypnotics. Musically siphoning their inspiration from a multitude of ports, but safely jutting out of entrapment, they notched up plenty of fireworks. Danceable adrenalines that gripped you in a flurry of cross-pollinations and fluid ascendants, dynamics that unicorn your cortex in cosmic traceries. The drummer splintering the prism into colourful splatters, something that makes their debut CD so seriously enjoyable.
Viktor Lux Crux is a key player in Barcelona’s vibrant post-industrial scene (actively promoted here) stole the second support slot with his Futuro de Hierro moniker. A industrial burn of visceral collaterals, crowing feedbacks. He’d quickly sculpt a chiselled beatbox into a rhythmic ransom of disjointed disforia, slash /oblique the scenery brilliantly, pinchering in the odd paramilitary jackboot, slicing in a dynamic silence to floodgate the senses seconds later in skidding frictions and torqued talon.Palm-smacking the DD3 pedals, notching up the sonic pile-ups to deliver a set of slippery spontaneity. His tape deck full of haunted children, choral canker. This overwelming bass gnawing at the esoteric furniture as swinging microphones spike the electrical soup, splashing you in snaking sibilance affixing this old-school industrial lover with the stupidest of grins. Seconds later I’m acquiring his very last gold LP. Faust start as they have done since that x-ray fisted début – no map or compass cares, the venue’s broken extractor the only inspiration needed. A malformed drone that fitted well with Ulan Bator‘s Amaury Cambuzat‘s bowed electric, Jean-Hervé Péron following suit, as a one armed Zappi Diermaier (his other sported a fresh plaster cast) kicked those rhombics around with a firm declaration. A seconded Jessie (of the Big Naturals fame) hitting the betweens with a firm metallic clang, giving a helping hand with the percussive duties as that strange intoxicating magic leaked forth, snaking your chromosomes with a tight squeeze of life-affirming yeah. Ernsthafte Angelegenheiten to be exact, like-minded musicians that are accompanying Faust on this short UK tour, taken in as honorary members. They add a regularised clout to Jesse and Zappi’s percussive prowess. Laibach-like militaries that sit beautifully with the ride; there’s something about the tune I try to place, but it sadly eludes. The question that still hangs in there as Faust gracefully retire the stage give it over for two Ernsthafte Angelegenheiten songs, the second of which was a real fire-starter of shoutability and razored shimmy that has the band’s linchpin Jeanne-Marie Varain catting with glee.
Faust return, the familiar patter of” C’est Com…Com…Compliqué” shimmering in cymbalised hiss. Cambuzat’s misty keys floating the jaunty punchbag. Péron’s Françoise parachuting its rippling dynamic, his guitar a glacial sheen. The chemistry elliptically thrown into the repetitive verve of “Hurricane”, while out of the sidelines Jeanne-Marie of Ernsthafte Angelegenheiten barracudas the brightness with some tasty trombone heralds, pairs with Péron, both beam at each other, clearly caught in the fun of the moment.stripped back into a unisoned mirage of repeated wordage and a didactic blur that becomes a dance of uneasy hypnotics and petering basslines. Another Ernsthafte Angelegenheiten tune falls into a psychotic cat of “Meeeeowww ooooh owww” to gas cylinder metallics. A slinky delight bringing to mind Kas Product‘s “Pussy X”.
Suddenly Zappi comes out from behind his kit hitting the roto drumheads, Eileen Lofink pairs with Jessie, as all three weaponise the seductive motorik sizzle of “Krautrock”, the mere whiff of which has you hopelessly entangled, drives the crowd mad, me included. So glad faUSt haven’t tired of its charms.Sparks fly up from it like a roman candle, he upturns it, works the exterior, a shower of shards fly out into the audience. One passes the corner of my cheek, the momentary heat ricocheting off my head. I cower for cover, the guy next to me laughs, a second later he’s ducking for cover too. The acrid scent of burnt metal filling up this former eighteenth century prison as shrill friction curves your ear. The audience a bizarre mixture of dancing and swerving out of harm’s way.
When it comes to bucket lists this was one massive tick, so glad I wasn’t wearing any polyester. An experience gift-wrapped further by the poignant yearn of ‘Listen To The Fish’, Péron’s crumpled trumpet still managing to glide on through to final sign off. To say the applause that followed was loud would be a understatement, Péron exclaiming “We are the men in the moon, you are the stars in the sky… now it’s time to say goodbye”.
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