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Fuck knows when it happened, but somewhere between Korova opening and Korova burning down (farewell dear scumfest) people forgot how to have actual fucking FUN at gigs.
No-one thrashes around anymore, punches don't get thrown, spit is no longer exchanged between audience and band, limbs don't get broken half as much as they used to be, stages remain in tact, and I can't even remember the last time I left a gig with spatters of someone else's vomit sprayed on the front of my shoes / t-shirt/ dress/ jeans.
Audience interaction lately seems to amount to only so much as a delicate arse wiggle, foot shuffle, a determined stiffly enforced pout of the lips and a nod of the head. Fuckin'ell.
So it was with warm, elated, heart charged delight that thrashing, stage destruction, vomit, and - 'someone outta get the emergency services on call just in case , shit is gonna go down'- plain recklessness was witnessed at the O2 Academy courtesy of The Temps.
Rampant with the kind of energy, brute force and power which could probably peel the stubborn leathery hide off Iggy Pop's insurance salesman withering bones, The Temps are the fuck off boot that this city / country has been in desperate need of for quite some time now. Experiencing them live is like being kicked brutally awake, and realising you've slept through the past six years or so of weak attempts at live shows.
Guitars and bass are brutal and fluid, every note sounds charged, every riff so sharp you can practically feel em breaking the skin and dancing through every one of your nerves - drums are magnetic and forceful, a skin bash self-applause of what are without a doubt some scarringly catchy tunes (look out for The Lesson, Electrolytes and Who Are They (To Say) ).
The audience is ape-shit. It's the way audiences used to be before someone decided it was anti-etiquette to stop caring if you elbow someone in the face behind you whilst you lose your fucking cool, mind and body to a band. There are pits of lads at the front of the stage going f-u-c-k-i-n-g-m-e-n-t-a-l.
IS RIGHT. About time, like.
Frontman Joey is perilously engaging - if he were to jump off a fucking cliff, you would follow. If he were to stick his hand in the fire, you'd willingly join him in searing the flesh off your own paw. Darting around the stage, he climbs the barriers, climbs the walls, thrashes himself about the place, fucks the scene up, vomits everywhere at one point and spits beer out all over proceedings when he realises he's taken a swig of the fit-juice right before a crucial riff - and boys gotsta dance, even he does receive a minor electric shock from the act.
He keeps up a strong dialogue with the audience - his thick accent framing a number of self-deprecating and t-shirt worthy statements, including inciting the whole audience to chant 'F-T-T' at him for a whole minute, before joining in himself - 'Fuck-The-Temps-Fuck-The-Temps---'
They're hard to keep tabs on - and it's hard to know who to keep your eye on, or what'll happen next. Songs play with structure - jolting silence into the middle of songs before blasting out a second half, performing with all their heart ruthless, raw slabs of the sort of angry, dark garage-punk which is as close to perfection as it may ever get.
You'd be a fucking idiot to miss any of their live shows. Seriously.
Destined. For. Greatness.
The Temps Myspace: http://myspace.com/thetempsliv
2 comments:
Sweetness. Cheers!
No worries, lid. Great gig! x
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