This is not an astonishing review, but I wrote it when I had COVID - actually, I have a strong suspicion I contracted it at this gig - and wasn't feeling very good; that's my excuse and you can't prove otherwise. Oh, unless you're one of those clever people who can poove COVID is made up, of course, naturally your arguments are incontrovertible.
DEEPER/ HURTLING/ MOOGIEMAN & THE MASOCHISTS, Divine Schism, Jericho, 9/12/21
One of the pleasures of this job is watching poor acts becoming good. But even more so is watching good acts become unexpectedly better. Down the road tonight, Young Knives are touring their fifth, and definitely best, album whereas we’re watching The Masochists. We thought they’d penned their career highlight in ‘Mr Curator’, a mandelbrot-mutating satirical rant about industry “creatives” which is like a Nathan Barley treatment written by Wyndham Lewis and Allen Ginsberg, but they followed it with the astonishing freeze-dried Frankie Knuckles funk of ‘Ghost Driver’. Both these are played tonight, yet are eclipsed by new tracks: ‘Psychotronic Dream’ is a Moorcock acid travelogue squeezed into a krautrock version of 60s garage, and elsewhere some unnervingly intoned monologues ride the minimal thrum of a pop band having a crack at Basic Channel. Frankly, we don't dare guess what they’ll do by December 2022.
We’ve not seen Hurtling before, so can’t comment on their development, but our expectations from the opening song were proven wrong, as a refined shoegazey elegance gave way to some more visceral power trio noise. We’re reminded of Belly – not that Hurtling sound like them, but both bands’ ostensibly elegant arty pop soon exhibits a love of old-fashioned rocking out. Not that this is a problem, mind, as they nod towards the less emotional end of grunge, a la Tad or Mudhoney, or perhaps Sonic Youth in their more straightforward mode. Perhaps none of the songs will set up home in your head, but the sound is gloriously powerful (as you might imagine when one member plays in My Bloody Valentine’s touring outfit).
Chicago’s Deeper don’t give us time to make assumptions about their sound, they simply pick us up and hurl us into the middle of it. They trade in uptight elastic rock in the manner of Devo, but with all pristine edges frayed and surfaces smeared with oily finger-marks. Their concise rock bulletins have an insouciant urban swagger, like Wire multiplied by the Strokes, and occasionally they go for a more atmospheric yelp and become an amphetramine-addled Cure, but whatever variation they apply, the music remains infectiously taut, and the performance authoritative but joyfully relaxed (and Shiraz Bhatti’s drumming is relentlessly fantastic). Forget this job, watching bands like Deeper is a pleasure for anyone, full stop.
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