FictionNonFiction, headlined by Selfish Cunt @ Tiger Lounge, Manchester, 5th December
Article published: Sunday, February 8th 2009
A well-chosen and varied trio of bands graced FictionNonFictions December event in its subterranean, dank home at the Tiger Lounge.
Openers Faux are something of an oddity, particularly in contrast to the following acts. Ethereal vocals drenched in delay wash over sparse electronic beats and bare synthesizers provided by a laptop. The guitarist adds a minimal touch to the subtle texture of sound; and at the end of one song he is left furiously strumming distorted and droning chords, seemingly having forgotten the audience.
There is a decidedly post-apocalyptic quality to them, as if they were writing the soundtrack to a bleak 80s sci-fi wasteland. The tracks all blend into one another like a dream sequence; and their curiously mute ending seems somehow consonant with the ghostly mechanized tone throughout.
The sinisterly named An Experiment On A Bird In The Air Pump are purveyors of stripped-down lo-fi punk that is reminiscent of Sonic Youth or DFA1979. With two bass players fighting over the low frequencies and primitive drumming they tear through a series of short and violent ditties with the intimidating feminine presence you might expect of Bikini Kill. Whilst not musical pioneers, they surprisingly manage to fill the sonic space as well as keep attention and finish in an orgy of noise and screams.
Those who find the moniker of the headline act slightly confrontational are advised to proceed no further. This is a band that has a reputation of being banned from half of the venues in the UK, having notoriously smashed up Snow Patrols equipment it only happened once singer Martin Tomlinson protests and aurally they live up to it.
Musically they are electrifying: jerky and distorted riffs competing with throbbing percussion, replete with unexpected time signatures and paralyzing stop and starts.
The singer throws himself around rabidly, as if he has just snorted a gram of speed in one go and shoved a hamster up his arse. He is literally terrifying; for the first half of his set he doesnt seem to take his demonic grin off me and I quiver in fear that he is going to jump on my table and start mauling me. Someone must have told him I was doing a review. Screaming one moment, theatrically grinning the next and all the while drilling inside your skull with words that he seems to have pulled from some dark English subconscious.
Towards the end they drag out their peculiar brand of psycho-punk too far, indulging in cacophonic dirges to the extent that the shock factor wears off. But nevertheless, by the end the small crowd is equally deafened and stunned.
More: Manchester
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