Bat For Lashes, O2 Academy Liverpool, 10.10.09

Having cheekily managed to scramble out of work early, and successfully peg it up to Liverpool’s O2 academy without getting spat on, hit on, started on or vomited up on – no small feat within the mercilessly drunk antics of Saturday night – I finally arrive at the venue to discover I’ve missed the first bloody song.

At first the thought concerns me – a bands introduction can be vital in establishing atmosphere and tone – but then the longer the gig chugs on for, the more I realise that in reality, I’ve probably missed sod all – just a few earthy, booming drum beats and some fancy lighting effects, both of which are infuriatingly dominant throughout the whole gig anyway.

Bat For Lashes (AKA Natasha Khan) is out of her depth in a venue this large. Unable to effectively entertain or captivate the majority of the audience, BFL is constantly almost drowned out by what is a typical Saturday night audience – loud, gab-happy and rowdy. Yes, she’s incredibly gifted for the atmospherics, but they’re atmospherics best suited to lounging about on a field somewhere with a smoke and a thermos or your mates’ living room, post-party. Right now she’s fighting a losing battle with the cackling, banter-eager masses.

Suffice to say her performance is woefully underwhelming – utterly unfeeling, soulless and blank, BFL lacks any kind of energy and doesn’t display any sign that she’s enjoying a single minute of her own music. You want to grab her go ‘Natasha! Remember that time when you drank a snifter of Babycham and danced in one of your nanas dresses to 2-unlimited before throwing up in a boot? Yes? Great! Channel it!! Have some fun!’ – come on girl, even a Rice Crispie can Snap! Crackle! And Pop!

That’s not to say that BFL are terrible – on a technical level they’re utterly perfect, with a strong backing band supplying unflinchingly spot-on support to Natasha’s voice, which at times is gallantly exquisite. Every song is performed with an album-quality sheen – but that’s also part of the problem. The entire set is flawless to a fault – rendering it utterly droll and totally redundant live, stripping the performance of any personality that would normally endear the audience to a performer. A set without any flaws is like the musical equivalent of botox – yes there’s no wrinkles, but there’s also no emotion – no expression.

Robotic and over-rehearsed – there’s little rapport with the audience, and when there is BFL looks uncomfortable with the interaction and tends to criticise the audience (‘…you’re a rowdy lot, aren’t you Liverpool…?’ she sulks at one point), who’re getting more and more restless with every song (which are merging monotonously into one – the same drumbeat, jingle-jangle bits and repetitious Bjork-homage-vocal lines making differentiation between songs difficult).

A quick glance around at the audience confirms that BFL is failing to hit the spot – a vision of sleepy, unimpressed expressions is plastered about the place – one woman on the top balcony has actually fallen asleep standing up.

Blighted by sound problems (a nasty amount of feedback emanates from BFL’ microphone on a regular basis throughout), the set becomes awkward and Natasha is visibly unimpressed, with the band looking gloriously nervous as to the verbal-lashings the sound-techs are going to supposedly receive after the gig.

She tries something vaguely interesting in the sets finale – wheeling out a big screen T.V. (I’m reminded of those substitute teachers you’d get in school who, after losing complete control of the class, would wheel the T.V. out and put The Simpsons on for half an hour in order to shut everyone up), and singing dual vocals with what looks like herself in a blonde wig. It’s not great, but a nice attempt at doing something a bit different (although I seem to recall Zombina And The Skeletones pulling a similar trick years ago when their drummer was on holiday – and Christ, they had fake blood and songs you could actually dance to).

Part of me wishes the big screen could have been left out if just to broadcast the scalding BFL no doubt inflicted on the buffoon who fucked up her sound.

Oh well.

Set highlights include the bass-heavy, ‘Trophy’ (in which BFL nearly screamed the finale of – screamed!) and the aptly named ‘The Big Sleep’ which is dramatic, decadent and just a little bit lovely. So there you go – not all bad.

An Interview With Japanese Voyeurs

Japanese Voyeurs are lounging about on the wide steps of The Masque theatre, idly strumming guitars and anti-sunning themselves beneath the dank, matt black ceiling - throw in a dying palm tree and a burst beach ball and the image could set the perfect precedent for the first ‘wish you were here...’ rock star postcard.

If JV do look as if they’re vacationing, then I feel like the git at the bloody airport rushing them through check-in and hurrying them back to their responsibilities back home.

Having disturbed them from their comfort-time, we walk around the endless backstage labyrinth in search for a spare room to talk in - the route is so laborious and confusing that I half expect to find Spinal Tap, cobwebbed over and exhausted, still hopelessly looking for the stage.

We find the spare room - a hot little backstage band chamber that reeks of the carlsberg pre-gig boy-fests of NME tours past. The seating choices are as thus: plastic chair, pleather couch, table or floor. The band beam excitedly, supposedly at the power struggle over who’s going to get the couch - but also at the equilibrium of the extreme loveliness-potential of the couch and the potential grime of everything else.

The sheer scowling and thunderous nature of JV’s sound combined with the spasmodic-demonic, naive vocal talents of charismatic vocalist Romily Alice have prepared me for a meeting with a ferocious brooding bunch, which thankfully is far from the case.

JV have caused quite a bit of a buzz about themselves recently - their spectacularly heavy live shows and latest EP ‘Sicking And Creaming’ have both been met with extremes of complete and utter adoration and thunderous applause but also the occasionally disturbed intense dislike.

“I won’t say that I’m okay with the bad reviews,” Romily squirms self-concsiously “I’d rather be in a band that people loved or hated than a middle ground one.” she pauses for a moment and furrows her brow, uncomfortably “I won’t say it doesn’t hurt my feelings because it does - ideally I’d like everyone to like us, but they wont.”

Any ill-received criticism they do recieve is in part due to Romilys’ persona led, dynamics heavy vocal style - at times disturbed and naive little-girl, at others powerful, scowling and raucous, a style that has seen her lazily and repeatedly compared to Katy-Jane-Garside in the music press. I suggest that she sounds more like a female version of Pixies’ Frank Black, something she scoffs humbly at, “I would never compare myself to Frank Black, though that’s very nice of you-” she smiles, “but I am a bit sick of being compared to only female singers. The singers I’m inspired by are male and there’s only so many female rock vocalists they can compare me to, you know?”

Does she think the criticism in part might come from the music press being predominantly male? That perhaps some men find it difficult to listen to a strong, challenging female voice?

“I don’t know-I wouldn’t say that. I mean I’m not on a campaign or anything to change peoples views on that sort of thing-”

Along with bands like Dinosaur Pile Up and Pulled Apart By Horses, JV are in the midst of what over-excitable music-journos are currently lauding as part of a wider grunge resurgence that has seen the 90’s sound, style and attitude creep back into the public consciousness.

Something bassist Thomas Lamb is blissfully oblivious to, “I’ve not actually heard that phrase (grunge resurgence) used - if it is happening then bring it on! Right now we only know of a couple of bands playing similar stuff. We’re pretty much playing with the same bands all the time”.

“But, I mean (grunge) isn’t a terrible thing to be classified as,” he continues, smiling broadly whilst the rest of the band interjects with just about audible mumblings about ‘some of the best music’ coming out of grunge.

Much of JV’s music has an indelibly regressive nature to it - a form which works perfectly within itself to juxtapose chugging riffs with pleas to ‘mummy’ (‘Dumb’) and naively expressed declarations of love (‘You’re So Cool’) - do they think the current Grunge Resurgence has stemmed from our generations desire to escape back into our childhoods?

“...maybe, but, I don’t know, we were only kids when grunge out-” interjects guitarist Johnny Seymour.

“yeah-” Romily elaborates “I think we kind of missed the whole grunge thing, I mean we were all probably only about 7 when Kurt Cobain died”.

So you weren’t the cool kids in primary school skulking around listening to Nirvana then?

Thomas laughs, “What? Walking around in like, Offspring t-shirts and stuff? No, definitely not!”

I end the review by reading the band a review I stumbled across in the dark, masked critiques of the internets public forums (“that’s the thing with the internet, anyone can say anything, totally free of conscience - they don’t have to look no-one in the eye and say it” Romily later suggests). Taken from a website for ‘scottish youth aged between 11 and 26’, the less than favourable review suggests that they sound as if the ‘vocalist has been borrowed from a mental hospital’ and that the EP in general is ‘a major disaster’. I laugh as I read it, confident that actually, everything this snot-nosed kid (I’m guessing) criticized JV for are the qualities that make them so great (except for ‘the major disaster’ part, which is a joke in itself, because the EP is so. fucking. good. it. hurts.).

The joke is lost on them.

“Whoah...” Johnny murmurs, gawping in horror at me.

“The thing is, like - there was a review a while ago on us that said I sounded like the child of Satan, but she really dug us! Someone else might have hated the fact that I sound like the child of Satan” Romily smiles, proudly, “that reviewers entitled to her opinion. Everyone is”.

Cue awkward silence.

“You just lock us in a room and read us a bad review?” Thomas laughs, nervously.

I’m a monster.

“I’ll just get my coat...” I say, and leave.

Japanese Voyeurs, Liverpool Masque, 16.10.09

It’s the shits being the first-band-support. Not only do your sound-check needs get pushed to the bottom of the priority sound agenda, but you also get stuck with the lame start-of-the-night sludge that sees people trickle in with all the energy of a narcoleptic getting on the bus to work.

On tour with Johnny Foreigner, JV are looking rightfully sheepish - the audience, of which there are few, are scattered throughout the auditorium. Some are eagerly stood at and around the front of the stage and do some gentle head-banging of appreciation throughout the gig, the rest of the audience are sat on their arses.

Why? It’s beyond me. If I had it my way people without a viable reason to be sat down would be chucked out until they pulled their fucking act together. Cheer up kids! Live music! Woooo! Why not even have a dance!? No? Oh, for fucksakes...

It’s a shame too, because JV deserve to be playing to an audience ten times the size of this one. Although let down by some inconsistent sound tech, their live performance is a bolt of fucking lightening. Feral, enigmatic, thunderous and blissfully doom-ridden, JV are clearly a band at the beginnings of something very, very special indeed.

Opening with ‘You’re So Cool’ - a disenchanted acclamation to the aggressive flirtation techniques of playground boys, singer Romily Alice’s voice purrs in sickly adoration before obliterating itself into a cadence of snarling, supreme screams. Backed by an incredibly ferocious rhythm section, the song pounds and pulverises - it almost feels like a playfully rough foreplay technique in it’s power and sly, loving brutality.

Romily in herself is fantastically engaging, if a little quiet between songs (but who can blame her when half the audience can’t even be arsed standing up?). Stomping her way around the stage and bashing her head against the mic stand as she thrashes herself around, guitar swinging with control like a weapon from her shoulder. Her voice is deliciously sickly, and when it reaches heights of despair or anger flares out majestically into passionately forceful bombshells of feral, animated howls.

In fact, shave part of her hair off, stick some combat boots and a pair of hot-pants on her with a belt buckle reading ‘FAAAAARK’ and we’ve ourselves a modern day, real life Tank Girl.

When ‘Love Sound’ kicks in - its delicate, thrumming intro teases artfully before exploding into what is a deviously sexy and fiercely raucous salvo of a song - backed by some sublimely well-paced drums and a mischievously creeping organ-line.

Sadly, the whole gig isn’t as consistently amazing as it could be - let down by a lack of atmosphere (a fault shared and perpetuated by the audience and the band), occasional poor sound, and a couple of songs which unfortunately fail to hit the same highs as the rest. There’s little rapport between themselves or with the audience, and by mid-set they play a couple of songs in the style reminiscent of someone checking their watch to see if its time to get out of work yet.

Regardless, every song off their ‘Sicking And Creaming’ EP sounds outstanding, and their second song (I wish I knew the title...), involving something about ‘I wanna be an animal’, is a decadently snarling slice of neo-grunge genius which is performed so adamantly that it’s nearly hypnotic. With the last note of 'Dumb' still feeding-back determinedly

Do yourselves a favour - don’t be missing the first band next time. Especially if it’s Japanese Voyeurs. And be standing for it - trust me - sitting down is for losers.

The Slits, The Masque, 8th October

The bar is four-deep with drunk – local hipsters, stoners, musicians, feminists, old-school punk enthusiasts and young, scrawny indie boys beam at each other in tipsy excitement.

The newly re-furbished Masque venue (the Barfly has hitched its arse mysteriously out of town, and taken with it its perma-stench of urine, sticky floors, over-priced flat cola and poor lighting – leaving The Masque to bring back affordable whiskey and nice décor. Hooray!) is so full of excitement that the floor is practically vibrating even before the first stomach-pounding belt of bass is unleashed.

Oh, and Ari-Up, you tease – galloping playfully between that netherworld between the stage and the wings prior to her ‘official’ entrance and producing the sort of adulating squeals from crazed audience members that I last heard at a PJ & Duncan gig when I was 13 (…what an absolutely horrific childhood flashback).

‘How about I put on a fashion show for you, Liverpool, before we begin? Huh?!’ she caterwauls jovially before unzipping her jacket cheekily and walking in the manner of a drunken storm-trooper on a catwalk.

She laughs uncontrollably, gripping her stomach with her hand, looking like the happiest woman of all eternity. And fuck me, is that energy contagious.

‘We’re gonna start with some classics from Cut…’ she hesitates for dramatic effect and applause, which she happily accepts before ‘and then some other shit off some other albums, and then…’ she grins, delighted by the forced bullshit mystique of the standard set-list process ‘some more Cut classics!’, the crowd goes batshit crazy, and with the support of her fellow band-members open with ‘Cut classic’ - ‘FM’.

One song in, and keyboardist Hollie scarpers offstage, never to return. ‘…she’s gone for a shit…’ Ari-Up declares, giggling (we later discover that Hollie is actually vomiting up backstage…which is a bit disappointing…), and thus begins the descent into audience-participating chaos which sees at least 12 eager audience members up on stage on and off throughout the gig to provide stupendously amateur guest vocals, keyboards, group chanting, percussion, screaming and some utterly delirious dancing.

It’s a bit reminiscent of those wedding parties where everyone gets a bit over-excited and before you know it your auntie-Pat’s on stage with the band-for-hire blasting out Gladys Knight songs - in a really good way.

Despite their initial panic over a lack of keyboardist, The Slits succeed admirably in keeping together a tight set thanks to Ari-Ups overwhelming charisma and a frankly amazing rhythm section. ‘Shoplifitng’ radiates so much vigour and power that it could be considered worthy for use as an alternative energy source, whereas ‘Earthbeat’ is atmospheric and stunning – replete with an onstage-chorus of audience members and bird-noises that Ari-Up encourages the entire audience to squawk down the microphone with.

Ari-Up’s consistently witty, physical and endearingly elated performance is more than worth the ticket price in itself. At times she orchestrates dance moves at the audience like a masterfully corrupt aerobics instructor - bouncing, wriggling and writhing along to her bands fantastically powerful reggae-punk stylings and demanding the audience to do the same. A knicker-flashing force of nature – she’s without boundaries or inhibitions and is eye-staggeringly sexy and utterly captivating.

A vibrant, venue-shaking finale comes in the form of ‘Typical Girls’ (what else?) – and the stage once again gets flooded with contributing hand-picked audience members who grab at the microphones and marvellously mess up the lyrics, sing out of tune and improvise a bizarre chant of an ending replete with shrill wailings and declarations of love.

Truly, truly one of the best live shows you could ever hope to see, and if you missed it, shame on you.

Four Finger Dismount

Nasty stuff. Sick. Waking up with a man inside yer, like a possession. Call the priest!! Nah - worse than that, much worse.

Should have stopped at the fourth drink. Should have caught the last bus home. Shouldn’t have worn a skirt. Shouldn’t have implied that I maybe, might have, possibly wanted something to happen. Should have stopped at the eighth drink. Should have slapped him harder, harder, harder on the frisky walk home.

Vision slip. Reality goes to goop when you’re that drunk - you press your hands against it’s screen and attempt to adjust it, like a slipped contact lens or an unfocused projector screen.

At some point you stop caring. Dribble, trip, slur. Easy to confuse your words. Easy to mistake one word for another. Huh? Sure, sure. You don’t care as long as you’re sleeping. As long as you’re sleeping. As long as you’re zzzzzzzzzzz

zzzzzzzz uugh uuugh uuuuugh uuuuuughh!!

ow ow ow pow pow ow ow ow pow pow

Nasty stuff. Sick. What you doing down there? Get out! Like a fly sticking to your eyelid - it’s not as easy as just reaching in and pulling it out. Your lids go. Brain is vapour. Body is device is mechanics is slot and ca-chhiiiiing collect your winnings! (they belonged to me).

He won’t remember tomorrow, anyway. Just the good points. Just the mmmmm and the aaaaaaaaah baby baby baby.

What was my role? Huh? Sure, sure. Words against words. Rep against rep. Good game sir, good game. Doll-bodied. Canine-corpse. Take the teeth take the tongue my mouth’ll cleanse you. woof woof.

Nasty nasty nasty (Jekyll Hyde hello hello hello beautiful want to kiss you want to look after you need a nice man to take care of you need to stop going for bad things bad bad fuck nasty aren’t yer want it don’t yer slut love it love stop fighting it gonna happen - love a good fight K.O.K.O.K.O.K.O.K.O.K.O-K-Okay-okay-okay-oh-oh!-ohhh...)

My turn next time. I’ve got tools. I’ve got tricks. Shush yourself sleepy. Probe tickle push pull your heart out through your mouth tug your balls up through your throat. It’s okay go back to sleep. It’s what you wanted, told me so told me 6 drinks in told me so told me so choke on your own cock-a-doodle-do not do that ever again will not do it ever again do not so much as look at me again.

Sniff snuff stuff

They just weren’t fucking getting it. Idiots.

Listen, I said to their gawping Rimmel masks, You must- - MUST have something smaller? Something cheaper?

They turned back around to the shelves they’d investigated just a few seconds previously.

No. 24 quid - cheapest.

I don’t have 24 fucking quid.

You don’t need to swear at us.

I’m sorry - it’s just-

One of them raised an eyebrow - an unsuggestive botox twitch.

Wait - how do you afford botox on the salary of a perfume counter assistant?

They frowned at me. Possibly. There was a long, unjust silence.

Credit Card, they answered finally in unison like the twins off the Shining.

I rolled my eyes deep into the high pit of my skull. I felt my retina lick my brain.

Listen, you must have samples. You know - little small bottles. Just one - just the one and I promise tomorrow I’ll go hassle someone else.

They looked at each other. A woman approached the counter. She had a small, yappy little dog under her arm which was uncharacteristically silent. It might have been dead. She wore perfume the same way Vietnam wore Napalm.

Hi there yah could I grab a sample of that new Jean Paul Gaultier? she licked her lips. The assistants smiled warmly at her. One of them pulled out a long strip of cardboard, sprayed it with the fragrance and gave it to her. The other pulled out a small giftbag treble the size of the sample perfume within.

Oh yah She sniffed it Mmmmm yah, it’s delicious isn’t it heavy yah cheeeeers guys.

The bitch left. Her cheap fragrance broke my flesh out into a rash. Nasty.

I turned back to the assistants, bemused.

Why does she get a fucking sample?

There’s no need to swear at us, madam.

Yes there is! Why does she get a freebie and I don’t?

They stared at each other, one of them - the one with the thinnest eyebrows - rolled her eyes at her workmate and walked away. The other stared uncomfortable at her watch.

I banged at the counter, incredulous. They just didn’t get it. The girl jumped. She clutched at her chest in horror.

LISTEN - I bleated, inches close to grabbing her by the throat and spitting in her face - I’ve just fallen in love with this boy and he fucking loves this fragrance he seems to think that I piss fart menstruate cry spit shit and sweat that fucking fragrance. I have five pounds.

I pulled the crumpled note out of my back jean pocket and held in front of the bloated barbie dolls face.

I’ll pay you for a sample. Just the one - please!? FUCKSAKES! He won’t come near me otherwise! The boys fucking addicted. You understand addiction, don’t you?

I looked at her worn down septum. Her burst-burnt pupils that had been over-dilated one too many times and sat sad and inky beneath her heavy lids.

Just how do you afford all that coke, anyway?

She bunched her elbows up by her face like Lurch. She swooped her now animated face around like a mother eagle protecting her nest -

Credit Card! she declared excitedly through gritted teeth before her face shrank once more into a morose saggy mask.

Oh.

Okay - anyway, please? Just the one? Or just spray some on me? Or wipe a bit of cardboard on me? Or break a bottle, yeah? Just break a bottle and you can claim it back on damages and I’ll just writhe around in it - a good 50 quids worth, it’ll stain me good and proper for a good few fucking weeks and you’ll not need to see me again. I promise.

You’ll bleed.

Excuse me?

You’ll bleed - if you writhe around in a broken bottle.

So spray me then, fucksakes.

I thought of me and him our limbs shuttered round each other like the safety locks on a roller coaster or roots in the Earth or or or - - dragging his nose across the nape of my neck my hair my collar bone my wrists my throat my tits my lingerie my cunt my thighs my knees mmmmmmm and then he cums shuddering twitching sniffing sniffing.

Gutted.

A bell rang. A metal shutter got pulled down. I screamed a little.

OI!! I banged my fist against it. Through the small metal fishnet I could see the assistants tearing off their aprons and talking about soap operas. Idiots. Bloody fucking idiots.

I checked my phone. There was a text waiting off him Can’t wait to see you baby. Been thinking of u all day. Cum round weneva. xxxxxxx

Bollocks. He hadn’t been with me without the scent, yet. I imagined the sort of men the shop assistants were currently shagging. Poor bastards. Probably wouldn’t know them without the coke or the botox. Should they answer the door one day to a sober woman with a full scope of facial expressions, they’d probably slam the thing in their face.

That would be me.

He’d be blindfolded and gagged.

He’d be routing about in darkness.

Have you cut your hair? Have you been on the sunbeds? Have you painted your nails a different colour? Did you always have that much pubic hair? How long have you had that scar on your wrist for? You don’t work out do you? Is that whiskey on your breath? You’ve got a seed in your teeth. I never noticed your bingo wings before. You’ve got awfully big feet for a girl don’t you? And, what’s that smell? Uuuuurrrrrrggggh. Yuck. You smell fucking human.

Crow-Jangles

Little ruby skull. All his thoughts and memories and character, all of it sticky scarlet, swimming about in it’s own demise.

She’d always known he was different. When he cried, the tears would shimmer. Would stick. She’d press her mouth to his eyelids and suck at them. Sour, sugary. His tongue would dissolve against hers in a kiss. A stick of rock. A holiday souvenir. A sherbert dib-dab - dip yourself in me. When things got really hot’n’heavy, it’d be like a lolly-ice. Dripping. Slobbery. Brain-freeze.

Blubbing and bobbing. Bits of brain glistening like sucrose. She sat in front of him, her legs mid-lunge, still. Her hands mid-pose, mid-threat.

Didn’t mean it, baby. Didn’t mean it. Sorry sorry sorry sorry.

Sweet things don’t last. Fucking Grandma mentality - take your time with those sweeties dearie make them last. Go at something too vigorously and it wears down. She held him inside her, all that heat - all that clamping, suffocating possession. Little sweet bone shriveled and shrinking.

What happened, baby?

Anyone can tell you about addiction. Sweet things. Any kind of a good thing. Any kind of an improvement on your own shitty life. Indulge now - yum yum go go go go - indulge now because one day it’ll be gone.

She was forced to scrape the barrel. Had to settle for making him cry and sucking at his sockets till they were red and raw and dry. Had to settle for his kiss, but dissolving - had - done - it was like tasting air. Stale air. It got sour.

You don’t care, She said. You don’t want me anymore, you don’t even try.

He’d stared impassively at her. They’d never done much talking, anyway. Words were flavourless, empty, useless. Yuck.

Struck a blow.

If I can’t have you....

And now he was gloopy. Floor based sweet factory.

She knelt before him, licking at his wound. His little emptied head. Flashes of images of family of ex-lovers of fetish of jobs of ideas of dreams of fear of desire (Not me Not me). Flashes of him. Tasteless. What a shame Oh what a waste of time! Not the sort of thing I usually shove in me gob.

She spat him out. Shovelled him up, emptied it back in, sewed him back up. Good as new. On your way young man.

And just like that, he wanted her again.

Bloody typical.

Soap&skin, Northern College Of Music, 19/10/09

There’s a theory by the writer/ theorist/ madman Antonin Artaud endearingly entitled Theatre Of Cruelty which implies that ‘without an element of cruelty at the root of every spectacle, the theatre is not possible...’ by this he implied that by producing a violent and austere performance you were producing a physical determination through which the audience could escape - the cruelty however lies within the performers ability to then strip away their masks to reveal a truth the audience did not care to see.

By this he was clearly implying Soap&skins performance at The Northern College Of Manchester tonight.

By turns humble, heavily self-conscious, delicate and innocent, Soap&skin (AKA 19 year old Anja Plaschg) is also unpredictably volatile - baring a disturbing amount of maturity in her ability to transform a gig space into a tense and at times deeply unsettling theatre of post-pubescent agonies, yearnings and experiences.

Low tuneless electronic grumbles play mischievously in the eager 20 minutes prior to her entrance - a man starts screaming on the track. People laugh nervously. It doesn’t stop. An eternity seems to pass before the wailings fade out and Anja skulks on and sits at her piano in total silence, a wry smile at her mouth.

We’re in a David Lynch film too fucked up for words.

One man applauds. No-one joins him. He stops and the silence thickens, begging for it’s eventual demolition within Soap&skins’ terse fingers on the keys.

When the music begins it’s played majestically and ardently - Anja seems to be a woman abound with a manic inner rhythm of misplaced fury and misspent youth which pounds demonically out of her in the most melancholic and melodramatic of manners.

She’s accompanied only by a small laptop set up on her piano, from which all manners of the beautiful and the sinister blare out from (samples of flutes, camera shutters, assorted machinery, screaming babies and strings to name a few) during the 13 or so songs of her performance tonight.

Some of it is outstandingly moving for its simplicity, naivety and uninhibited beauty (namely, ‘Cry Wolf’ and ‘Mr Gaunt PT 1000’) but these songs only seem like a padding out context (and are performed as so, grouped tidily so together at the beginning of the set) provided to add an even larger ardor and impact to the songs which see her explore a raucous and frankly terrifying tone.

This is Soap&skins sublimity though - to transfer from the shy, overtly modest persona of the start of the set to the distraught, caterwauling, confrontational performer of the end of it.

In part this is developed through what is a perfectly crafted stage show - replete with atmospheric lighting and an understanding of how to create unease amongst what is the most intimate gig setting I’ve ever encountered (a 150 seater lecture theater is an indelible place to frighten people). When the lights go out during the morose slow burning ‘The Sun’, there is little to inform the audience as to what the flaming-fuck is going on.

There’s a brief shimmer of Anja’s smokey lame leggings hanging off her nimble frame and bolting around in the shadows somewhere. She can be heard breathing intensley behind a sharp, shallow drumbeat tapping itself out in the background like the fading rhythms of a swallow whose heart is about to burst. Flinging herself up the centre stairway which separates the seating aisles, she stomps at each step and caterwauls in her jagged Austrian accent ‘I’m not afraid of youuuuu!!’ and lingers hauntingly at the very top. Very few people turn around and keep her gaze. She’s such a domineering. threatening presence at this point that they probably believe they would melt if they were to hold her gaze for longer a few seconds. And who knows, maybe they would.

Stomping back down to her piano - now demonic, possessed - a backing track of the end music from Requiem For A Dream splays out (you know, from that scene where Jared Leto gets his junk-mutated arm lopped off whilst his mama gets electro shock therapy and his girlfriend is forced to go ‘ass-to-ass’ for smack. The memory of said scene is horrific in itself), and Anja attacks every minor key at her disposal with her fingers, bashing hungrily away at them in a frankly psychotic manner that is heavier than most metal gigs. In fact, Anja’s performance style owes more to the raw, aggressive and often highly confrontational punk theatrics of someone like Iggy Pop than the delicate anti-folk eccentricities of Regina Spektor (to whom Soap&skin is often lazily compared).

The set ends on an equally macabre and theatrically perfect note with the lights blotting out once more and re-emerging on the lone mic-stand in front of the audience for the gothic-electro wonder that is ‘Marche Funebre’. The scarce light pits into Anja’s bone structure and sets into an appropriately skull-like visage whilst her hands settle by her side into a pair of devilish claws and she jerks her body around in a contorted dance reminiscent of Sadako from The Ring bolting broken bodied out of the TV screen. Her voice is translucent, effervescent but also with an edge of disturbance to it which has been present for the entirety of the gig and deserves a round of applause all on its own.

She hangs her head by her knees - her shoulders jutting about mid-pose as some kind of a mutated bow because when she lifts her head back up and grins at the audience she swiftly walks robotically away, never to be seen again

The lights go up.

No-one moves.

No-one breathes.

The thickening silence returns again, but this time it awaits an applause which Soap&skin doesn’t return to hear.

Her absence is revealing of both a heavy vulnerability which is perhaps too shy to receive the audiences adulation and also a intelligence that to re-enter the auditorium and interact with the audience on any level would be to allow her mask to slip and reveal where Soap&skin starts, and where Anja Plaschg ends.

The Theatre Of Cruelty is in the abandonment of the audience and the further disturbed captivation of a woman as an incredibly fascinating enigma.

Perfect.

Peanut Allergy

You vindictive little fuck-

breaking-up
with me and leaving
the peanut butter open
on the kitchen counter
like that!

and with a spoon
beside it--tsk tsk tsk

Fast-break from breakfast bleak-fest feast

fie-fi-fo-fum-yum-yum-
all done

blunted
heart
thrum

swollen
tightening (fuckin
nutter) my throat was aroused
by peanut butter.

Mary Jane

The moon, too, is a conspirator – the bins, traffic
Horns, cats, and windows – all of em, everything. Even my
Breaths – my legs – my mind – WHERE
ARE THEY ALL GOING? WHAT IS THIS PARTY THEY’RE
ALL RUSHING
OFF TO IN SUCH A HURRY? Sssshhh. Someone says sssssshhhhh.
They’re laughing now. Great. My heart falls into a sort of a footless
Flamenco dance. Morse-code for F-U--C-K--E-D.
I wonder how I can crawl away from my brain. It would involve a knife –
A reflection – a motorway – a river. Something fast and wet. Tears blood sweat sewage tide. Silly. Stupid. What the fuck
Kind of a thought is that? The soft, doughy texture of my stomach would swallow
A knife the same way a cappuccino swallows sugar. Shut
Up. I tell myself. You’re a fucking idiot.

And then I notice his mouth. Nobody, really. A question mark for a face. Anyone
Else somebody else. I want to crawl out
Of my brain and into his mouth. I want to defecate on his lip. I want to tickle
His larynx with my toes. I want his jaws around my thigh like a vice clamping
A flailing dandelion (one little blow and KABOOM!)

I’ve been inside my reflection.
I noticed nothing noticed vapid noticed age and nutjob -
All the little workers who come out at night and do a job.
Noticed em takin a nap on the windowsills of my retinas and drooling
Down my face

One more toke to cuckooooo-
One more toke one more toke one more
Lovely gulp
Of crazy.

I crawl out of my reflection
And back into my brain.
I do this more times than I should – I’ve treble
booked myself with self-
Analysis from the same angled skewed
Several dozen times.

What An Ugly Baby...

Son of love son of war love and war bolting against each others soft
spots licking warheads detonating sonnets mmmmmmm yum yum yum out that gun
born Cupid shit-stirrer by nature had good intentions performed badly
took the bow off his daddy nihilistic do-gooder that one would shoot blind
sometimes
sometimes whole groups a theatre of limbs strangled with desire
and each other furious flesh climbing
a moving ladder.

Was disease
germ warfare poison
arrows Cupid would snigger huuhuuhuuh was a rape
nobody wanted Love afterwards following first fever
first blush of urgent gash of the first rash of desire liars
Cupid fixing conflict with fight - penetration in flight POW
ow ow ow love-la-love turgid little wound
he knew what he was doing but lonely bitter setter-upper never
upper-set
shot himself in the foot FUCK sucked at his toes and heaven
knows what Cupid tastes like to himself gnawing the flesh
off the bone love-la-love doubled over chewing ankle hunger
like nothing else was in his nature to love and destroy pulling out ribs with his fists
to blow himself better mmmmmm huuhuuhuuh tickles
love-la-love punched through the chest grand climax Cupids smegma was feathers
feathers white plumes sacrificial dove down with a bullet groped around for a heart
but pulled out a raisin shit dessert shit
love-la-love give me back my feet love-la-love replace my ribs love-la-love-
la-love-la-love juiceless dried I tricked myself lied I felt
nothing la-love
nothing

Bus Ride

Was spouting Jesus shit - save the World cleanse
your sins. All that. Face squished up against the window watching
leaves hit the pane chewing at her own fingernails like a fat
man devours a kebab after his twelth pint down
the boozer. Made half an effort, she did - she did - Blazer,
tee, but it all ended in Lacoste at the legs tucked into uggs, naturally,
her hair half brushed unwashed but static still at peace
with grease the hair at least
aint goin nowhere but her eyes her lips her quivering lips her split
focus her dripped spit every atom popped gone bang! bang! psssshhhhtt.
Nothing.
Bang! Bang! psssssshhhhhttt.
Nothing.
Knotless balloon.
The husband? The lover? The children? The God? The plan? Dreamy-dreamy-doe-eyed-existance. Naaaaaaaah-ive. Naive.
All of it extinguished and gone like the dinosaurs (sssssshhh don't bring that up).

The rest of the bus stands up to leave Jesus
is coming she says Jesus is coming Don't worry
everyone Jesus is coming

On the 86
route? Really?

She eyeballs me - can smell the sex the sin the opinion of evolutions the blasphemes the bad things I am one I am one

Jesus is coming, she nods (oh for the love of fuck don't let her sit by me) She gets back to her nails gnaws one down to a fleshy stump a dead tree. There's blood.

I ring the button.
And dive off.

Jesus is headin to one shit-scene.