The Garage, London
6th December 1998
There are few enough gigs where all three acts are equally placed in their levels of enthusiasm, energy and sheer in yer face enjoyment, but tonight is one of those nights where the rush of machine noise goes from strength to strength. Bomb 20 is first up, a surprisingly reasonable chap by the name of David Skiba, who faces a rack of electronics and forces unfeasibly pounding thuds, breaks and squirts of distressed kitsch out between his diffident thanks to the cyber-crusty-Techno-head crowd. Not content with the four-square restrictions of Techno, the beat jumps from Drum & Bass depthcharge shudder to clattery rewind with a smidgen of drill on top, but compared to Shizuo‘s set, Bomb 20’s is comparitively conventional, right down to the frighteningly polite “Thank you’s” which he slides in shyly between each of his minor apocalypses.
Whatever David Hammer‘s on (and it’s pretty safe to say it’s not downers, although being the Rock god he’s obviously setting himself up as, it could be something as un-Techno as good old-fashioned booze), he’s not stopping in one place for very long; cavorting from mixer to guitar and back to encourage the stage-divers with Satanic gestures and exhortations in the vein of “Let’s Rock!” He even manages to shoehorn in Smoke On The Water somehow for the intro of one slice of noise (“song” really doesn’t come into it) – though pieces can last as little as a few seconds of one flanged and phased drum loop, or trudge through as many sample combinations as Shizuo finds interesting at the time. It’s like witnessing a child playing with atomic weapons, and the mixing desk crew keep a wary eye on the red indicators as the PA shudders with the stop-start shenanigans on stage, with barely a repetitive beat to be heard.
By the time EC8OR take the mikes for their set, the venue is alive with a strobing, smokey post-Rave vibe – and they even kick off with an A-Team sample, which sets the mood nicely for the next forty-five minutes of Hardcore frenzy. Gina D’Orio and Patric Catani keep the spirit of Crass alive into the Nineties, but with DATs, keyboards and samplers instread of the guitar, bass and drums. Techno-ranters of the soundbite-sloganeering variety (“We’re not part of it” seems to be a typical refrain, screamed in unison over an appalled electronic squall), they’re Punk as fuck and twice as noisy, pounding out their aggression in a nihilistic noise assault which only encourages the pogoing posse at the front even more, presented as they have been with rhythms consistent enough to actually make manic leaping up and down a possibility – albeit a very dangerous one. Everyone else is just held transfixed by the sound of rhythm in crisis, as an atonal splurge spews from the speakers, giving the methods and textures of the tyrannical beat a righteuosly anarchistic kicking.
-Freqonomix-
