Some people came in from the main hall to catch Karadreuffe. Why, I don’t know. Maybe they thought their deodorant & Lush product scene was also happening in the café… well more fool they!
What to expect from the mighty Ayisoba? We’d seen him having a fag outside whilst leaning on a ruddy great stick with an animal head on it, so we thought “nope this won’t be your average meat and two veg gig”.
They are, in the truest sense of the word, exceptional.
And so was this whole evening.
I want Han Bennink to do that daft thump with his foot, or shout “yeah” every time I brew up. I want to know where to buy trousers like Han Bennink’s trousers. I’m obsessed.
Could the Paard confound Terrie’s recent comments made in the Dutch press about playing soulless new pop venues?
What really sucks you in is the bass line which, by contrast to all the guitar shards being chucked at you by Gwen and Corno, is as smooth as velvet. Madness.
I will really miss the Spiegel bar. It’s a place that is chockfull of atmosphere and I will bet you all a euro now that the new venue in Utrecht won’t have anything as nice or as welcoming as this space.
As to the rest, well you can SMELL the perfume in the conditioner they used. These cats are SCRUBBED, me hearties. What to do about that? Well they can watch the fucking Sugar Coated Mindbombs, that’s what.
For sure there is always an element of looking back to “better times”, and there were moments during the night where I thought I was watching some part of my memory served up as a hologram.
Now if that sounds like some sort of incantational nonsense on my behalf, then all I say to you is, run with it, motherfuckers! This review of The Ex can be nothing if NOT fucking mystical and magical
Katadreuffe are somehow grabbing a whole set of fractive, seemingly non-related noises and attitudes and watching them melt together in the white heat of the noise they generate.
In a city where takeaways are the front line in a turf war, our epicurean chronicler is forced to seek sustenance in an unforgivable place.
Rather Copeland reminds me of one of those outsider artists like Ferdinand Cheval or Henry Darger, people who mindmap and create huge, mystifyinig edifices of work; stuffed full of weird curlicues and cul de sacs.
Haines has this very expressive way of playing keys too; he hammers through the notes, pressing the keys like he’s battering through some Mozart concerto, using his playing to signal changes of mood and pace.
So imagine me drawing a shiny sun and a green field getting ploughed up by a bloody great big tank with “heavy metal groove” written on the side. Katadreuffe were that good. Savvy?
5am felt like anytime, not tired, but totally wired, chatting onto old pals and lost in this alternative reality bubble that Fat White Family had blown. They're one of those bands that could - quite easily -make you not bother about anyone else, ever.
But for most of the crowd, I wonder if they were just here to stare at Mark E Smith. His status is becoming like one of those First World War, “last survivor” veterans they used to inappropriately wheel out at remembrance ceremonies a few decades back.
Frankly, Lucrecia Dalt ruined the rest of the evening for Incendiary. The bar was set too high and anything after this was a coda to what went before.
Frankly Iceage could cover The Hollies and make it sound like the world is ending and Fenris the wolf is unchained, such is the honest, “there for all to see” drama they create.
Bombino is in my humble opinion, best seen live, with no strings attached. In some ways he’s one of the few musicians where a sense of possession or “proprietorship” or “understanding” shouldn’t really bother anyone in an attempt to enjoy the music.