My Bunny Valentine

Something bang up to date now, a review from this month, printed in the most recent copy of Nightshift.

THE ORIGINAL RABBIT’S FOOT SPASM BAND/ SPACE HEROES OF THE PEOPLE/ PICTURE BOOK, Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 6/2/09



At their best Leeds’ Picture Book are a cross between Lamb and Sade (as in “Smooth Operator”, not 120 Days Of Sodom), at their worst they’re a load of old balaerics. They do show plenty of rhythmic inventiveness in their sleek techno pop, and a nice line in flatulent 80s keyboards, but the vocals aren’t able to breathe life into the songs; if they had an Alison Goldfrapp or a Roisin Murphy hamming it up we might be talking. Having said this, the last two tracks blow the rest of the set out of the water, the finale pitching keening violin against the synth hum, and single “Strangers” is a fussy bustle of dubstep keys and exuberant syn-drums that are half Karl Bartos and half Tito Puente. More like that, please.

Space Heroes Of The People have always been about balance. Their music is live enough to feel organic, and programmed enough to seem inhuman; the sound is minimalist enough to be hypnotic, but compact enough to class them as an ace pop band. It’s a tough tightrope to walk, but tonight they nonchalantly saunter across, possibly stopping midway for a somersault or two. Perhaps it was the live vocals, perhaps it was the unexpectedly meaty Sabbathesque half time sections, perhaps it was the righteously hefty sound that the engineer coaxed from them, but this was a superb set. We just can’t shake the image of Maggie Philbin coming onstage halfway through “Barbie Is A Robot” to explain what a vocoder is.

The Original Rabbit’s Foot Spasm Band are not at all original, but everything else about them is fantastic. They play 30s jazz songs, but we feel as if we’re in a sordid sweaty speakeasy, not some horrific sanitised tea dance. These songs (“Mack The Knife”, “The Sheik Of Araby”) are about sex, narcotics and impossibly louche tailoring, and they should be treated with the dirt they deserve, not emasculated by legions of function jazzers. The Spasmers get to grips with the soul of the music through riotous trumpet, rasping sax, and by being heroically, Biblically, drunk. This, my friends is the authentic sound of New Orleans…possibly during the hurricane.