Madam Ant's Compilations - Volume #19 - August 2012

Yeah, I know we're now into September, but the mix itself was completed in August, and there's a lot of twangy surf guitar tracks, so I'm keeping the title as is. This one was difficult as I had loads I was reluctant to trim but my hand was forced because I ran out of time. Anyway, hope you enjoy!



   http://www.mediafire.com/?8soeceg39ejjy83

Bowling and Hipsters and Bands, Oh My!: The Drums and Chairlift live at The Brooklyn Bowl, August 22nd, 2012

by Carrie Quartly

On Wednesday I went to a free RSVP event at hipster mecca Brooklyn Bowl here in New York, which is half bowling alley and half concert venue. There are giant HD TV screens on the walls, and you can hear the pins being knocked down in the lanes as you’re standing by the stage waiting for bands. I watched as some of the expectant audience nearby savagely devoured portions of fried chicken and indulgent disco fries, and then greedily sucked the grease off their fingers.

It was a Diet Coke and SPIN sponsored concert featuring Chairlift and indie pop sensation The Drums, so staff made sure your complimentary soft drinks were being refilled and that you got your free magazine with its Best Coast and Wavves summer cover shot. At the same time, the corporate sponsors and the venue were more than happy to delay the start of the show by an hour and a half, encouraging patrons to splash out on more belly buster sandwiches and pricey cocktails, with the monotonous thud of uninspired club music ensuring absolute zombification.

First band Chairlift eventually came on, waifish singer Caroline Polachek stood behind her keyboard in a midriff peasant top teamed with a giant pair of palazzo pants and black platform boots, while the guys wore the usual t-shirt and skinny jeans combo.  

After the maddening boredom of the headache inducing beat dropping earlier, Chairlift’s lightweight, airy pop didn’t do a whole lot for me - as bland as baby food, with shades of Sarah McLachlan.  You might remember them from “Bruises”, featured on the TV ad that launched the 4^th generation iPod nano a few years ago, or then again, you might not… I’m sure they’re nice and sincere enough about what they’re doing, but I honestly could not wait for them to get off.  

Finally, after the slowest descent down a backstage staircase EVER, The Drums made their appearance. If you are not a fan it’s easy to see why they are written off as mere image-conscious victims of the constantly spewing hype machine. Frontman Jonathan Pierce is like a Brat Pack hunk out of a John Hughes movie with his blond bowl cut, ubiquitous red varsity jacket and turned up jeans. Synth player Jacob Graham, bassist/guitarist Myles Matheny of Violens fame and second guitarist Charles Narwold are just as striking with their chiseled cheekbones, edgy hairdos and carefully selected wardrobe pieces. You can almost imagine the band’s audition process – good looks and a GQ styling assistant permanently attached like the half-formed second head of a parasitic twin being primary requirements for the job…But of course all these transparent judgments really don’t matter when you get to know the music.

They may be pretty boys, but they are also endearingly gawky and have a tendency to wear their hearts on their sleeves. A few months ago, the band openly criticised North Carolina’s constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage on their Facebook page, and when a homophobic fan responded by wanting to return their records to them, they promptly offered him a refund, as payment from him would be like "taking blood money” to them. This is not the stance of a shallow pop band.

This same earnestness comes through in their music, whether from a more laidback perspective with songs about summer days with friends, or Jonny Pierce’s more recent rebellion against the religious zealotry of his upbringing and resultant estrangement from his Evangelical Christian parents. 

I last saw The Drums at the HMV Forum in London in November 2010 supported by Margate’s great Two Wounded Birds, a show which immediately followed the surprise departure of bassist and childhood friend Adam Kessler, so they seemed a bit strained and unstable. There were many highlights though, and despite being rough around the edges, it almost seemed like a Beatles concert at times with the shrill female screaming and declarations of love for Jonny.

Tonight they couldn’t have been more on form - the bright, trebly guitar tone was clean and precise, the bouncy thump of Myles Matheny’s bass was contagious, the synthesisers created a hypnotically moody undercurrent, and Jonny himself sashayed like Morrissey and jittered like Ian Curtis while sounding like neither. Because Jonny is best when he sounds like Jonny and refrains from dropping into a low Ian Curtis baritone, and in the gap between November 2010 and now, he seems to have honed his trademark dreamy falsetto to perfection.

They rattled through "What You Were", the charming new wave synthesiser swoon of “Best Friend”, the lonely pleas and swirling atmospherics of “Me and the Moon”, and the melancholic and theatrical analogue synths of “If He Likes It Let Him Do It” (a title which wouldn’t seem out of place on a Smiths LP).

The darkness was then lifted by “Book of Stories”, with that great beachy jangle sounding like a modern Pet Sounds outtake, and the uplifting closer from 2^nd album Portamento, “How It Ended”.

The chiming “Money”, with it’s fabulous driving bassline, was an emotionally direct, sad singalong which easily resonated with most people there, with it’s frustrated refrain of “I want to buy you something/but I don’t have any money/no, I don’t have any money”.

Their only misstep came during “I Need a Doctor”, their favourite song to play live, which was more like ‘I need a tuneup’ for Charles Narwold, and Jonny had some words in his ear and Narwold admitted with a smile that it was ‘terrible’.

Well you can’t win them all (!), and they redeemed themselves with the instantly likeable “Days” with its wistful longing and the sleepy romanticism of its rhythmic bass strum.

The big crowd pleaser hit followed, indie smash and summer anthem of 2009, “Let's Go Surfing”. Its appeal is instant and undeniable - that chugging bass riff, that reverbed guitar, the catchy as fuck whistling…At one point, I could have sworn Jonny changed the lyrics and adlibbed “Obama, he’s gonna make it all better”, which I suppose is possible given the outspoken nature of their political leanings.

They closed out with the giddy, soaring hooks of “The Future” from their debut album, “And I’m aaaaaalways in your caaaaaaaage/set me freeeeeeee…”

Love it or hate it, the music of The Drums is blissful and freeing escapism, but is also not afraid to deal with harsh realities in a sincere way, and their songs give me a yearning nostalgia for a lost time in my life, even if it was just because they were the constant soundtrack of my gloomy bus commute 2 years ago…But that’s the power of pop.

 Setlist:
What You Were
Best Friend
Me and the Moon
If He Likes It Let Him Do It
Book of Stories
How It Ended
Baby That's Not the Point
Money
I Need Fun In My Life
I Need a Doctor
Days
Let's Go Surfing
The Future

Nice Cheekbones and a PhD: John Maus and more at Hudson River Rocks, July 12, 2012

Live Review: Hudson River Rocks with Roomrunner, John Maus, Dan Deacon - July 12th, 2012

by Carrie Quartly

The Hudson River Park free summer concert series in NYC began this year in it's new location at Pier 84 with an eclectic trio of up-and-coming artists.
Nearby on the water, the space shuttle Enterprise sat atop the Intrepid museum's floating aircraft carrier to the right of the stage, a looming symbol of imperialism.

The first band to take the stage were Roomrunner, featuring ex-Double Dagger drummer Denny Bowen. Despite successive technical failures which had them cynically imploring the crowd for a guitar loan, or jokingly reassuring us "it's all part of it", they still managed to impress with their sludgy riff rock.
Beneath the heavy, muscular guitar crunch and muffled fuzz of the vocals, there's a marauding rhythm to their songs - a catchy, lunging groove that forces you to respond in appreciation with rigorous head nodding. Highlights included the pile-driving riff assault of "Super Vague" with it's churning corkscrew twists of Sonic Youth style feedback, and the spiky, angular lurch of "Undo". Definitely a band to keep an eye on.


Next up was John Maus (the one I'd been waiting for), Ariel Pink collaborator and creator of his own brooding, reverb saturated synth pop. Having just discovered his addictive solo output earlier in April despite already being a fan of the warped 'freak folk' of Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti, I couldn't believe my luck when this show was announced, and free, too!

Far from being your typical commodified pop star, Maus is a political science post graduate and holds an undergraduate degree in music composition, and in interviews he is a manically excitable explosion of dauntingly verbose yet empowering philosophies. Among them, a belief in the importance of sharing the experience of being here now and connecting with one another, to defy the mindless control of today's capitalist power structure.
In spite of these lofty ambitions, his music is bereft of the flippantly obscure experimentation one might expect. Instead, he crafts densely layered, emotionally direct pop which soars with sincerity and majestic grandeur.
Those who haven't witnessed his live performances might be tempted to write them off as autistic karaoke (he sings, wails, punches himself, claws desperately at his shirt as if experiencing a heart attack, and pogo jumps along to his backing tracks), but as Maus explains, 'the hysterical body' is the ultimate expression of the language of pop, as every night he pushes his physical presence on the stage to the absolute limit.

He wastes no time once he appears on the River Rocks stage. "Castles In the Grave", a 2010 demo which has been polished for his new 'A Collection of Rarities and Previously Unreleased Material' release, sees Maus spasmodically bending to the beat in a kind of hunched Quasimodo posture, his face drawn taut beneath his constantly flopping hair. He grits his teeth, pulls at his hair, knots the fabric of his jeans in his hands and throws an almost involuntary tourettes-like punch to the side of his head then starts screaming, a sudden detonation of frantic, urgent howls peppered with the odd 4 letter word utterance, and the thrilled audience screams with him.

Maus quickly moves along, and the bounce of a drum machine signals the start of "Maniac". He seems on the verge of hyperventilating, his eyes bulge, uncontrollable tics send more blows to the side of his head from a hand which now seems possessed like something out of the 1946 horror classic The Beast With Five Fingers. He chants along to the gloomily purred vocal loop, "Yeah yeah yeah yeah, I'm such a maniac/you're such a maniac/we're fucking maniacs, we're fucking maniacs, ooooohoooh" and the crowd goes berserk as a snazzy shriek of synthesiser blasts through the verse.

He tips some water over himself and we are treated to the bizarre "Rights For Gays", a floating shimmer of synths which comes off lyrically as an equal opportunities policy proposal, with the catchy repeated mantra of "Right now, rights for gays, oh yeah/And medical care for everyone!". If he were running for president, he'd have my vote!

Then comes the first John Maus song I ever heard, "Do Your Best", an exquisitely moody echo-swathed piece of forlorn romanticism complimented perfectly by his deeply resonant low baritone. Here again in the lyrics, themes of connecting with others reinforce his musical objectives and the pursuit of pop's maximum emotional expressivity. "Reach out your hands to the one alone, in the city tonight". Maus fist pumps and gazes intently into the audience with a purposeful glare in his eyes as rapturous cheers erupt from all sides.

Other songs included the lovely twinkling arpeggiated synths of "Streetlight", the thumping bassline and stunning Wendy Carlos-esque keyboard solos of "My Whole World's Coming Apart", and "Keep Pushing On", during which he leapt down from the stage to pogo and headbang in front of the barrier, clutching at his chest as if going into cardiac arrest. He lifted himself, swung his legs over and scrabbled back up onto the stage, and without taking a breath, continued to bounce, his arms stabbing out into the air every now and then in sweeping emotive gestures. By now I noticed some clothing casualties from this frantic and tortured visceral display - one of the buttons of his shirt had come loose, and the zip of his jeans had also almost completely unfastened (steady on, ladies!).

He finished off with the glorious, god-like ascent of the anthemic "Believer" from 'We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves'. With arms outstretched, he yelled and whipped his hair around, swinging from side to side as if stuck on a giant spring, then stomped around the stage to stand with his knees locked together, a tangled ball of raw intensity. And with a final head smack he walked off the stage with the programmed sounds still pulsing after him and echoing in everyone's ears. This mesmerising and enigmatic performance was somehow utterly invigorating, with John Maus almost becoming a messiah figure of pop, resurrecting our primal connections with confoundingly simple yet deeply thoughtful music, and with eachother as human beings as well. Afterwards I was buzzing, I just knew I'd witnessed something phenomenally special. Go see him!

Stocky, bearded and bespectacled electronic geek Dan Deacon rode out the rest of the evening with a memorable set broken up by his clumsy yet well meaning monologues coloured by his absurdist sense of humour, taking on touchy subjects like the Occupy movement, corporate greed, and smoking in the park (although most people didn't give a shit and kept smoking, this is New York!).
Behind his own small lighting rig and trademark 'trippy green skull' stage prop, he remarked on the dizzying steepness of the high stage, preferring to play solo at floor level with his gear set up on a low table surrounded by the crowd. Tonight his usually streamlined stage ensemble featured two drummers for an even denser noise.

Deacon's style is a hyperactive mash of hypnotically repetitive breakbeats and lilting keyboard loops accompanied by his ever present chipmunk vocal filter, reminding me of a quirkier Holy Fuck or Fuck Buttons. He seems skilled at building celebratory orgies of sound, as the songs are well planned dance collages with ecstatic, shiny melodies cutting through the epileptic crash of beats in a way that will leave ravers and indie fans alike feeling fully satisfied and reaching for a post coital cigarette. Depending on what mood you're in, it might seem monotonous or headache-inducing at times, but Deacon certainly knows how to entertain.

The first 100 people to visit the merch stand got a free Dan Deacon flag promoting his forthcoming album 'America'. He encouraged those in the audience to "fulfill his narcissistic dreams" and wave the flags, commenting dryly, "This is what the internet was made for", before snapping a photo on his Smartphone. This was the first (and most straightforward) request of the evening, and I was glad I moved away to lean against the steel crowd control gates as Deacon gave long, rambling instructions to form a wide circle, creating a dance-off pit in the middle of the floor space. He would then split the crowd into teams, "This side is gonna dance like the movie Avatar was actually any good, and this side is gonna dance like the mom in the movie Big". Chaos momentarily broke out when he ordered, "Run as fast as you can, as far as you can", and bodies darted off frenziedly in all different directions like they were fleeing a fire. He played the standouts from 'Bromst' as well as the propulsive, simmering static of "Lots" and the delightful alien pop of "True Thrush" from 'America'.

Deacon then wound things down by graciously thanking staff involved in putting on the free event series (they receive no government funding so it's all donation based), and seems almost as big a John Maus fan as myself, spouting effulgent praise between songs, "He's a beautiful, beautiful person, an amazing musician, inspiring performer, and an excellent man". When the last song finished, he did his best to disperse the stragglers still hungry for more, "That really was it...You can go home now."

And the slow, painful comedown to normality began - until next time!

The upcoming River Rocks concerts will feature Oberhofer and The Soft Pack this Thursday, July 26th, and conclude with the spectacular lineup of DIIV, Wild Nothing and Grimes on August 9th.

R.I.P. Tim Cross, Adverts Collaborator and Musical Believer

by Carrie Quartly

Earlier today it was announced that TV Smith’s long time friend and main collaborator Tim Cross succumbed to lung cancer just months after being diagnosed with the disease. As fans will know Tim Cross played keyboards on the massively underrated second Adverts album Cast of Thousands, joined them for a live farewell tour and featured on many classic TV Smith albums, from Channel 5 up to 2003’s Not a Bad Day.

The recent Adverts/TV Smith documentary We Who Wait showed Tim Cross as a very loyal and supportive music fan with great instincts, who stuck by TV Smith in the face of discouragement from virtually all sides of the business. 

Tim Cross perhaps seemed an unlikely addition to The Adverts fast and jarring musical dynamic back in 1979, with his previous experience playing in the Mike Oldfield band, but he understood Tim’s intentions perhaps better than anyone, and refused to confine the sound to the singular narrow vision of punk’s adopted dogma.

His influence proved a punk record could also be an ambitiously arranged and inventively textured experience, straddling many styles without compromising the passion and integrity of the message. TV Smith had bigger ideas, and Tim Cross was the right man for the job in terms of putting it all together and reaching out to an audience hungry for something genuinely different that embraced change and development with each subsequent release.

He also worked with a wide variety of other artists such as The Upsetters, The Skids, Doll By Doll, Fleetwood Mac, Hall & Oates, and Sponge.

His passing is a profound loss for friends and family as well as everyone who champions open-mindedness and creativity in music, may he rest in peace.

CBGB Festival at Central Park Summerstage, 7th July 2012 - featuring Guided By Voices, The Pains of Being Pure At Heart, The War On Drugs and Cloud Nothings

by Carrie Quartly

6 years ago legendary Bowery rock club CBGB closed it's doors due to rent disputes and other legal entanglements after over 30 years on the scene as a breeding place of punk. As is well documented, The Ramones, Blondie, Talking Heads, Television and many others cut their teeth on it's dirty, graffiti covered stage. 

All negotiations, campaigns, benefit concerts and the rally at Washington Square Park organised by a few frustrated artists failed to save the club, and it seemed that founder Hilly Kristal not only succumbed to complications from lung cancer at the time of his death, but also of a broken heart. Since clothing designer John Varvatos took over the lease in 2007, the original CBs site has transformed into a soulless menswear boutique, with only half-hearted attempts to preserve the temple of punk's past glories (some graffiti remains on the walls next to a few trendy album sleeves).
Gentrification and commercialisation continue to claim New York's former legacies, and increasingly it has become a home for the cloistered rich who sneer at noisy, downmarket establishments like CBGB, which played a fundamental role in shaping the character and soul of the city and making it a sought after place to live to begin with.

Now investors are reviving the name, launching a festival and eventually hope to reopen a club in a new location (a move Kristal also spoke of in desperation during the final days of battle with the building's landlords).

So the first inaugural CBGB Festival kicked off last Thursday and concluded Saturday in the scorching NYC summer heat with the damp, fetid air rippling like a steam room full of sweaty gym patrons.

The festival featured 300 bands (including appearances from scene veterans Cheetah Chrome, Tuff Darts, Tommy Ramone and Glen Matlock) and 30 different venues across the city, large and small. In addition to music events, there were film screenings and a whiskey festival offering ticket holders the chance to sample the best artisan spirits from a number of up and coming small distilleries. The full lineup and schedule can be viewed here. 

As the struggle between artist and capitalist rages on, responses to these plans have been mixed, with lots of people outspokenly bemoaning the sanitised greed of a venture that would have "Hilly turning in his grave". Others, including Hilly's daughter, Lisa Kristal Burgman, who oversaw the buyout, are relieved to see the name live on. The intentions of the investors in their own words: “We’re never going to recreate that moment in time. We’re trying to continue the idea of supporting live music, making a lot of noise and being a part of New York City. The festival is one way we can do it. Eventually the club will be another way we can do it.”

Regardless of politics or how Hilly ran the original CBGB, with the numerous safety violations and the smell of puke omnipresent, the spirit of the place and the power of the music is undeniable, and something the city needs today more than ever.

Saturday's free Summerstage concert featured prolific low budget production indie gods Guided By Voices, New York's own The Pains of Being Pure At Heart, Cloud Nothings (who were the first band to receive the 'best new music' award accolade on Pitchfork), and the droned out Americana of Philadelphia, PA's The War On Drugs.

The bands seemed scheduled in order of expectation, and Cloud Nothings took the stage at 3:00, opening with "Stay Useless", a full-throttle yet catchy summer anthem in the same indie pop punk tradition as Superchunk. Dylan Baldi's raspy voice and quick riffing is full of youthful angst and conviction which makes the song instantly likeable and identifiable. What came after was a lot of protracted guitar squall wig outs offset by controlled bursts of emotionally charged growls from Baldi, as they played "Fall In" and the epic "Wasted Days" from impressive latest album Attack On Memory. An amplifier couldn't cope with the heat and blew up which extended the aimless noise jam a little more while the crew scurried to find a replacement. Ultimately the set's pacing would have benefited from adding a few of the more direct and charming pop songs from their earlier albums to show off their instinctive melodic skills, and I just couldn't help but feel they seemed infinitely more comfortable performing "Stay Useless" than any of the songs that followed. Drummer Jayson Gerycz also stole the show with his manic attack style drumming which was highly entertaining to watch.

The War On Drugs were on at 3:50 and shone briefly with "Baby Missiles", singer Adam Granduciel stretching his nasal Dylan-esque tenor as far as it would go against the quivery, feel good keyboard line, but they suffered from a lack of variation and played somewhat meandering psychedelic grooves after more equipment failure kept us waiting, which was frustrating and increased the overall flatness of the performance. In many ways, the stifling temperature became the focus of the event, with constantly malfunctioning gear and Granduciel complaining inbetween songs about a 4th of July sunburn which was like he "dipped his legs in red paint" and how he spent the 5th recovering by "smoking weed all day and putting aloe on his legs".

Next up were The Pains of Being Pure At Heart, and they lifted the atmosphere with an earnest and energised performance of short songs with a brightly jangling melodic punch. Frontman Kip Berman proclaimed "Not a dry band member allowed on stage!" before they sweated through "Come Saturday", enhanced by keyboardist Peggy Wang's subtle, sugar-coated harmonies and the swooning "ooh-ooh-ooooh" making it the perfect pop singalong , a triumphant "This Love Is Fucking Right!", "Heaven's Gonna Happen Now", "Heart In Your Heartbreak", The Body", "My Terrible Friend", "Young Adult Fiction" and the b-side to their second single and namesake tune "The Pains of Being Pure At Heart", featuring the anthemic chant of "We will never die, no, we will never die", and Kip's wispy, fragile vocals melting nicely along with the sparkling guitars. They just seemed much more alive, capable and with it than the previous two bands, and it was a more than admirable effort considering the extreme heat and resultant technical problems.


GBV strode onto the stage at around 6:00 to rapturous applause, classic early lineup guitarist Mitch Mitchell embodying nonchalant rock star cool with a cigarette perpetually dangling from the corner of his mouth. Robert Pollard was obviously a little lubricated, not enough to be incoherent and sloppy, but rather the precise amount for a loose-limbed swagger and confident bravado as he twirled the microphone cable and scissor kicked his way through the set, his right leg tapping along like a jackhammer the entire time. Now in his mid fifties, it seemed Pollard was happily savouring his cult hero status, and there was very little to trouble him (not even the 100°F heat) as he informed the crowd, "We were showing people how it's done in the 90's and we had to come back to show people how it's done again today." Most of his other stage banter involved celebrating beer and other controlled substances, quoting Benjamin Franklin ("Beer is proof that god loves us and wants us to be happy.") and pondering why you're told not to take the brown acid ("They just want to keep you away from the good shit."). The set was mainly focused on newer material from Let's Go Eat the Factory and Class Clown Spots a UFO, which wasn't as immediately gratifying as some of the old gems they tossed in ("Game of Pricks", "I Am a Scientist", "Goldheart Mountaintop Queen Directory", and "Echoes Myron"), but they played really well so there's not much to gripe about. Robert Pollard was like a king entertaining his loyal indie fan subjects, and he knew it - all hail the king!

And so the four day celebration of some of the best bands and clubs NYC has to offer under the newly resurrected CBGB banner closed out with a bang which would probably have made Hilly Kristal very proud indeed.




 

Madam Ant's Compilations - Volume #18 - June 2012

I've done it again! My new mix is now available for download. Much of it seems to be a stand off between the two musical hotbed heavyweights Brooklyn and San Francisco. If you enjoy it, please leave a comment.








                                                                                                                                                                                                      

  
http://www.mediafire.com/?zj2vex83x9yhpzs                                                                                                                                                 

Still Too Young To Cry! Live Review: The Adicts @ The Best Buy Theater, NYC, 17th May 2012

Still Too Young To Cry! The Adicts Live @ The Best Buy Theater, NYC, 17th May 2012
by Carrie Quartly

I was excited to see The Adicts in New York after being frustrated by the rarity of non-festival appearances in their native UK and missing them late last year as their Rebellion set clashed with a Captain Sensible solo performance, so eagerly purchased tickets when they went on sale earlier in March.

The venue, formerly The Roxy, is now a Best Buy Theater, and it's a strange, sterilised place with lighted escalators, a mandatory $3 bag check-in cloakroom, and big burly door staff on a position of authority power trip (I watched as one girl was told she could not stand in a specific spot, and was brusquely directed instead to move a mere 3 inches away). There was even a long table where the contents of people's bags were being picked through and analysed by security. It reminded me of an airport.

The doors opened at 7, and the first band, Eva & Her Virgins, didn't come on until nearly 9. When they finally strutted on stage, it was clear what the delay was, they were obviously too busy getting dressed.

The blonde haired singer stomped around on spike heeled boots festooned with glittering chains, her purple corseted ball gown pushing her ample bust up to her eyeballs. She sprawled around the stage in overt masturbatory poses, and repeatedly flashed the audience, hiking the short hem of her dress up over her ripped fence net tights. The guys were shirtless with dog tags slung around their necks, or wearing sleeveless hoodies draped with the obligatory emo chains. A flimsy keyboard burble squeezed out like a sofa fart, and was abruptly smothered by generic chugging guitar riffs, while the singer shrieked and strangulated herself with the microphone cable, which unfortunately failed to muffle her tuneless croaks. 
Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, another trendy looking twit with a bad haircut and a septum piercing was brought out for some guest rap verses. If there's one thing I hate, its shitty rap rock fusion acts who can't even tackle one style of music competently, never mind successfully combining the two.

I suppose they'd like to think of themselves as dark electronic pop with a theatrical edge, but it played out like an embarrassing, desperate pantomime of nu-metal posturing. Little plastic dolls all dressed up in their alternative clothes. I scowled through the entire set.

2nd band World Inferno aka "World/Inferno Friendship Society", aka "The Inferno" (another local band from Brooklyn) took the stage next, an ambitious multi-instrumentalist ensemble of sharp dressers blending styles of punk, soul, jazz, klezmer, cabaret and ska. Front man Jack Terricloth proved to be a charismatic performer, cavorting about the stage with a twinkle in his eye as the several backing members (including a viola and an alto sax player) plugged away behind him with devilish abandon. “Who’s your favourite dead punk rocker?” he asked the fans before ripping into ‘Poor Old Jeffrey Lee’, “Everybody’s got one.”

Their confidence and command of the stage was welcome after the woeful disaster of the first band, although the crowd became particularly aggressive throughout - punches were thrown, I endured the constant digging of elbows in my back, and some beer was spat into my fringe by a girl coveting my spot by the barrier (I don't give in that easily!), all considerably distracting!
Another annoyance was the relentless crowd surfing, several times I had to dodge pairs of Converse boots as they swung towards my face when some attention seeking moron (often the same person again and again) was hauled over the barrier by event personnel. We were also regularly having water bottles emptied over our heads without consent, which made me feel a bit like an animal being hosed down in a pen (and didn't do my leather jacket any favours, either).

The mood visibly changed for the better when the Clockwork Orange intro boomed out from behind the closed curtain - the people behind me were bouncing with excitement rather than through motives of attempted GBH. The curtains parted to reveal the brother droogs in their white jumpsuits and bowlers, announcing their intentions of fun with a violin instrumental version of ‘Ode To joy’.

For opening number ‘Joker In the Pack’, they were soon joined by Monkey, resplendent in full joker makeup, glittered trousers and matching oversized mad hatter top hat. Great salvos of confetti were tipped out from boxes, and Monkey stalked the stage, pulling long multi-coloured paper streamers out of his mouth and nonchalantly tossing decks of playing cards about. Despite technical issues for the always entertaining guitarist Pete Dee at the start, his buoyant spirit never dampened and he soldiered on with a plucky smile. 

‘Tango’ saw Monkey armed with a large umbrella, re-enacting the dance steps, crossing one foot in front of the other with a playful grin. The umbrella then sprang open, hurling showers of sparkling confetti all over the stage.

Throughout the evening a series of similar outlandish props were employed, Monkey’s microphone stand was a spangly orgy of streamers. He wore a giant inflatable Elvis wig and flashing LED glasses during ‘Crazy’ which were then discarded into the audience. He flung soft toys and sock monkeys and unraveled long colourful streamers at the eager throng of fans who did their best to catch them.

When he disappeared for a wardrobe change, he returned in a checkerboard sequined jacket all done up with string lights, flashing like a Christmas tree. He even drank out of a glass that flashed in a sequence of changing colours in-between songs. He sweated through infinite layers of garishly patterned outfits (shiney, shiney) and emptied an entire can of silly string into drummer Michael ‘Kid Dee’ Davison’s face, while a bubble machine unleashed a flurry of hundreds of little bubbles into the air.

These wacky antics are the perfect backdrop to The Adicts brand of up-tempo, catchy anthems and high energy punk-pop.

The set covered most of the high points of their lengthy career, from the boot boy days of their 1979 Lunch With the Adicts EP (‘Easy Way Out’), to 80’s synth pop driven hits from third album Smart Alex (‘Troubadour’), and a couple from early 90’s comeback Twenty-Seven (‘Angel’ and ‘Fuck It Up’, the latter giving Monkey the excuse to flip his middle finger out at the audience in time to the beat).   

‘Chinese Takeaway’ became an extended rallying chant, with the audience spiritedly joining in on the “woo woo woo!” chorus. Other highlights were Monkey's mime theatre act for ‘Too Young’, the wickedly absurd ‘Steamroller’, and a fist-pumpingly anthemic ‘Viva La Revolution’ which made me want to storm the Bastille.

“It’s almost midnight in Times Square in New York City.”, Monkey declared as more confetti tubes exploded on the far right of the stage. “This is better than New Year's Eve, isn't it?!”
Yes, Monkey, indeed it is.
The set closed with the band's biggest hit and firm fan favourite, the enduring and endearing 'Bad Boy'. The crowd swayed and sang along and bumped big beach balls around the room as if in a giant gumball machine. 
This was only the second time I've seen them live, but it seems an Adicts gig is guaranteed to be a dazzling circus of fun, and with an act that's over thirty years old, perhaps also the secret to why they have aged so much better than a lot of their crusty punk peers. VIVA!