Come Nine With Me

I got a message through Nightshift yesterday. Ulysse Dupasquier, who was reviewed previously here. He asked that I remove his name from the review, as it's the only thing that comes up if you Google his name, and he's a bit embarrassed. Well, I'm not going to rewrite history, but now I've written this, it should be the second page in a websearch, so if you've just read read how rubbish Ulysse once was, you can now read this and be reassured by him that he's much better.

There. Call it being neutral...

NUMBERNINE/ TURBULENCE/ PATSY DECLINE, Klub Kakofanney, Wheatsheaf, 3/6/05

Long ago, in that fuzzy magazine clipping of musical history called the indie eighties, The Jazz Butcher sang about the "Southern Mark Smith". Patsy Decline goes one better. She's the Southern female Mark E. Smith. It's all there: the fag, the slouch, the drawling goblin brainpunk delivery, the lyrical obtuseness (featuring ignorant astronauts and a factory of lies).

To complete the illusion, accompanist Twizz Twangle spends the majority of the set fiddling ineffectually with leads and amp dials, recalling the dark side of Smith's stage persona, and the backing track (whcih completely drowns out anything Twizz actually plays) boasts a throbbing drum machine and insistent bass that wouldn't have been out of place on I Am Kurious Oranj. Naturally this sort of thing is flawed and unfinished, but Patsy's restless energy is enough to carry the show. Much ink has been spilt on the social, political and aesthetic legacies of punk, but the anarchic brio of Patsy's set recalls a John The Postman era when everything was valid and, what's more, everything was a bloody good laugh.

Full marks to Turbulence for having the guts to play after their singer was refused entry at soundcheck because he's barred form the venue...and nul points to the singer himself, who must have suspected that this might happen. And him a promoter too. Tut. Anyway, for grabbing the bull by the horns and general the-show-must-go-on trooperdom, I shall forever defend the boys from Turbulence. Which is lucky, because musically they're absolutely dire.

We'll forgive the fact that the guitarist can't sing, and knows none of the words, as it's not his job. We'll forgive the hesitant performance, because presumably the entire band dynamic has taken a hefty knock off kilter. What we won't forgive is that they aim for a sort of muso psychedelia, but what they hit is about as cosmic as a pile of nail clippings on an Oasis tab sheet, and the fact that then horrible keyboard patches make The Krypton Factor theme sound like Klaus Schulze. Let's just stick our fingers in our ears and ruminate on what great sports they are, eh?

Anything would sound powerful after that, but numbernine's amphetamine Britpop packs a fair wallop. Soaring choruses, songs about London, jaunty new wave music hall breaks - by rights this should sound anachronistic and tired, yet somehow numbernine are giving this dead horse one more gallop round the steeplechase. Roaring tracks like "365" and "Talk" recall a particularly bellicose version of The Longpigs, and if a couple of the weaker moments recall Menswe@r, at least the emphasis is firmly on the "swear".

numbernine's main strength is surely the twin vocals, which have a punchy presence, but are capable of delicate close harmonies when necessary. The rhythm section is pleasingly tight too. Despite this glowing review, there's still a little something missing from numbernine: musically speaking, perhaps they need to add a few personalised accessories to their second hand clothes. Still, the foundations of a good local band have been laid. Let's see if they have the dedication and ideas to finish the job.