London, 15 November 2021
The sense of anticipation was immense, bathed in a blue haze, monitors staring out of it like Ewok eyes, the stage remaining empty as the words “Dream the name and I will answer to it” breeze in, tantalised in sparse flickerings and occasional birdsong roughed by the distinctive rub of a cement mixer.
The stage quickly fills, I count twelve but I’m sure there are more — quite a gathering — with no fireworks (I guess the ornate wooden roof has ruled out any pyrotechnics) nor knitting for that matter, just the music — Faust IV played in its entirety. An expectation that collectively explodes in a dirty monolithic joy of the throat-grabbing rendition of “Just A Second”.
The bleaching light sparking with the action, the blistering force of those dual drums slanting the enchantment, the double bassist’s red hair swaying as he rhythmically lacerates the wah-whipped, the whirling and Amaury and Jean-Hervé Péron paper aeroplane an elaborate duel from within its centre. A hard-hitting opener that sizzles out into squiggly abstraction – a rat-tailed staccato of tenderised dislocations. They’re re-ordering the playlist, and the gargantuan chug of “Giggy Smile” hits next, its shanty-like lilt driven through by an infectious inkiness as Jeanne-Marie Varain yells the verses to that rising double-headed riff. Later, that clarinet swooping over pterodactyl-like, adding some extra discordia to the proceedings. The energy running bright arrows, sweet riverings that rash, then rush away, the pure celebration of it sending JHP’s daughter into smashing that tambourine like a possessed thing.Wows aplenty that breeze quickly into the distinctive charms of “Laeuft Heisst Das, Es Laeuft Oder Es Kommt Bald Laeuft” in a lilac-lamped delight that has JHP’s acoustic guitar hooking a sharp harmonic blush to that clapping, then the wooden block dot-dot-dash that follows it, guzzles a mild bit of audience interaction. Anthony Moore’s guitar floralling the flex as this cyphering syrupy swirl of a song crouches in folksy forks and drifting counterpoints, gleefully floating in and out of its comfy confines and has the vocalists netting a wordless recovery, laced in the bassoon’s reedy depths, then scattering like a distracted child. Only ever heard this live once before and here its latitudes a lush legacy indeed.
The reverence for the material is obvious, but I’m liking the way it’s been allowed to breathe, re-invent itself. The stitching stretches, lets in fresh shapes, as if redefining its joy anew. A connection that darts between all assembled, an enthusiasm that bleeds out into the audience, the pre-internet people (like myself) who have grown up with these tunes and the inquisitive youngsters alike. There’s something universal, alive, involving / evolving as the paradoxical sweetness of “A Bit Of A Pain” pours in opens out in a Flaming Lips-like warmth, lets in a Japanese monologue from Yumi Hara about the difficulties of swimming in East Germany, then bends in potent words. A pre-recorded poem called “Dream The Name And I Will Answer To It” read by somebody who couldn’t be present tonight, Peter Blegvad of Henry Cow / Slapp Happy fame, its crisp delivery giving the illusion he was actually there metering those cerebral punches.They slip you the distinctive plod of “Sad Skinhead”, one that’s quickly eclipsed by my all-time favourite Faust song, “Jennifer”, something Péron informs us wasn’t even her real name, its loose, accommodating frame a summery somersault to a triangle’s shiver. The rolling drum’n’swagger nurtures the melodic surround, entering a weird scarecrow of clock-working clicks and zips, noisy tailwinds scarletting the canvas silenced by a single smash of cymbal and deserved applause.
Mike Oldfield my have stolen this album’s thunder back in the early seventies, but tonight reassures that these tunes were made to last — a sentiment that flies into the chaotic colours of “Krautrock” – a fitting finale of over-driven excess that otters your skull perfectly, confettis a standing ovation.-Michael Rodham-Heaps-
