I tell you now; if Yuko Yuko ever got managed or advised by someone from Entertainment Land here in the Netherlands, they'd be fucked. Fucked. I'm tempted to go and dig up Tony Wilson and say, "come on love, one more time."
It's interesting watching people watch a Cosmic Dead gig, too. For sure there are those who participate in the band's hyperactive onstage frenzies. But there are many who seem to slip away in a trance, and sit or sway whilst staring into space.
This was a boatload of Dutch Long Hairs and Sonic Vandals brought together by the lads from Dead Neanderthals. Lined up in two banks of four they proceeded to question time itself by nailing their demands on the gates of the Underworld.
Given all of this multidisciplinary jostling you can see that Holly Herndon's gigs can be some sort of well behaved battleground of the senses; something that, on this night, was made all the more compelling/confusing with her crazy visuals.
Honestly, you only get this kind of thing at Haldern, Jeffrey Lewis crammed into a small bar singing pop songs about Vietnam while across the road there’s a quartet summoning the voice of Death.
Incendiary may well be guessing here, but probably the last time Mick Ness and Dirk Polak were together in the Paradiso in a strictly musical capacity must have been around 1981.
Mr Mounfield is one of the world’s coolest men, but could he inspire others to follow his example. Would toby jugs be bigger than deely-boppers? Possibly.
I could easily sum this gig up by saying, Franz turned up and played all their popular tracks and big singles to a packed crowd and made everyone happy. I mean that’s what they do.
Somewhere the woods, Rock’s old spirit sat communing with the lions and giraffes, wondering what its new guise should be.
Why they agreed that wearing silver costumes on stage that look utterly off their heads was a good idea - in an “extended” Cosmic Joker/ your mates dressed as Earth Wind and Fire at a New Year’s Eve Party / acid head hospital patients kinda way – is beyond me.
See, WOLVON aren’t just this gonzoid bunch of Northerners whose sound reflects the fact that they wouldn’t know how to eat olives.
It’s good to know that The Generator could add something genuinely different (musically, or in ambience, if nothing else) to Leiden.
The singer Dale Barclay – wearing some gauzy snakeskin shirt and high-street chain bouncer’s kecks - prowled around like a dog locked up in a high rise.
This show is one of the best I’ve seen from the Bunnymen for yonks, maybe the last decade and a half. The reason? Well, there’s just something in the air, as Thundeclap Newman so quaintly put it.
Laraaji set up a Zen vibe – his famous “internal orchestra” no less, and matters got way out; we were lost by some rippling brook, wandering through a collective unconscious. Mrs Incendiary said “this is what cats dream when they’re happy”.
Needless to say the room loved it; and an incredible moshpit of slumming academics, street scruffs from Amsterdam, earnest vegans, journos in love with cheap booze, rentapunks, music bizz types and Antwerp scallies threw each other around with total abandon. Jeez, even one of the academics John Robb had given an ear wigging to was making selfies behind the vortex of flesh, sweat and cheap Aldi beer.
One minute bone splintering noise, the next a Spanish loon wearing boxing gloves miming to Beyoncé.
No, it seems that Mecano (Un-Ltd) have come back from lord only know where, with a sort of Bismarckian determination to ensure that they are remembered, and put back on the cultural map.