THE COATHANGERS/ SPRINGBREAK/ SELF HELP, Future Perfect,
Bully, 16/5/17
If this review were broadcast by BBC News this paragraph
would be accompanied by an unnecessarily flashy infographic illustrating how
new wave is an attempt to resolve the opposing forces of melody, energy and sloppiness. Self Help may have a little developing to do,
but at their best they stumble across this sonic tightrope impeccably. “Won’t You” has the insane catchiness of Os
Mutantes’ “Bat Macumba”, the cheery steamroller bludgeon of your favourite
Buzzcocks classic and the droopy-eyed delivery of a band who just woke up from
a week-long kip. “Gooey” is a lost
Wannadies hit delivered with the lackadaisical cool of The Strokes, albeit once
the New York glamour’s been scrubbed off with lager-anointed chip paper. There are superfluous moments – the odd guitar
solo, and a tendency to decelerate every song to a teetering stop – but if Self
Help can hone down to the glowing pop core of their music, they’ll be a
glorious band.
Bristol’s Springbreak also pull in different directions
simultaneously, but although they are the more intriguing band, the success
rate is slightly lower. Most of the set
consists of sweet, perky indie pop lost behind an ambient peasouper of malleted
cymbals and Cocteau Twins guitar shimmer, sounding like The Sundays would if
you left them in your hip pocket and put them through the wash. Although coming across as about the nicest
and most ethical band you could hope to swap coloured vinyl with, there are
times when the music feels frustratingly mismatched, but feminist rant closer
“I’m Walking Here” pulls them over the victory line, the shoegaze fug acting as
shimmering backdrop to the song’s euphoric anger, rather than obscuring veil. Cue swingometer swoop.
You’d think that Atlanta punk trio The Coathangers would
have no room for variation in their scrappy brattish bashing, but, in
contradiction to every punk show played in history this set actually becomes
more interesting as it goes along. Sure,
the first half is good, Ramones directness and Stooges scuzz played with the
tinny-fuelled bonhomie of the post-record industry house show generation, but
the second half is superb. Somewhere around the time of the most economic diss
of Oxford on record (stare down the crowd; intone “Harry Potter” in a quavery
voice; giggle), the band starts swapping instruments, loosening up, wobbling
into a pseudo-rap territory and generally becoming more childishly joyous than
is decent. By the time of the last
number, essentially a dumbass solo for squeaky dog toy, we’re reminded of
ultra-early Beastie Boys, albeit with a more enlightened agenda. We did have an animation to illustrate the
journey this gig took, but someone’s sprayed a big pair of boobies on the
monitor. Landslide victory for the
iron(y) ladies.
