King Tur's Wah Wah Hut, 17th November 2010
The first word that comes to mind when Wake The President take the stage is economy. Economy as template, not limitation. A certain classicism of sound and look: thrift-shop jumpers and Scandinavian college crops impress the eye as a frenetic urgency engages the ear, kick-starting a hotly anticipated evening. ‘Last Exit For The Lost’ adds texture on the spring reverb of a Fender Twin and a Vox tube amp. Guitars truly ring like the peel of bells, just as they should come Sunday evening on the King Tut’s stage. ‘She Fell Into My Arms’ nimbly soundtracks the implications of its title – it’s a song safely held in a stream of sonic disorder. Interplay between guitar twins Björn and Erik grows exponentially as dry ice starts to emanate onto the stage – maybe that’s why I can almost detect a touch of early Cure here and there. And that’s a compliment. Already masters at tonal colouration and possessing a demeanour utterly suited to their chosen field, Wake The President are extremely good – perhaps a chorus away from being very splendid indeed.
Flesh’s set commences promisingly, with a vocal-free heavy summer vibathon which positively bounces along, then, as a figure from a back projection screen repeats the word “Flesh” ad infinitum, Sharon Martin takes the stage to offer some proficient vocals as the material nosedives. Grammy-winning producer and ex-Altered Image Stephen Lironi’s impressively propulsive drumming is wasted on fare such as the clumsily titled ‘This Afternoon Tomorrow.’ Cue cliché after cliché as, visually, the way of all Flesh’s set is to trawl through a slew of over-familiar iconography: a worn litany of Warhol, Studio 54, Edie Sedgwick, Campbell’s soup cans, Amanda Lear, John Wayne, Lichtenstein, Coca-Cola, eighties break-dancers, Soul Train and Minnie Mouse that concludes, with stunning predictability, with the signature Warner Brothers’ sign-off “That’s All Folks!”.
Martin is a capable if somewhat bland performer, but lyrics of the caliber of “We’ve got to be strong if we’re going to survive” alienate your correspondent, which would be an agreeable enough condition were it of some Brechtian dialectic nature, but it’s more a case of gazing askance at someone else’s party in full swing as Lironi’s wife, Claire Grogan, and friends jig with unfettered abandon and whoop loud approval from the floor. Their endorsement is understandably partisan, but I feel numb and dumbed-down, enclosed inside some A&R showcase bubble somewhere between 1987 and 1991. As the Sexual Objects will later sing: ‘Outta Place Again’.
The sonic signifiers of the mid-80s to early 90s are nothing to be ashamed of. Hey, WIN were a great band, even as they had to mind the gravy train of remixers. And they still are, somewhere in the washes of Foamy Space Time. Because ultimately it doesn’t matter what the building blocks are. Put the man with the most febrile, fertile imagination since Mark E. Smith into any creative situation and genius will out. That man is Davy Henderson of The Fire Engines, WIN, Nectarine No.9 and The Sexual Objects. He is a demi-god next to Flesh’s Demi Moore.
Now, I’m sure this wasn’t the case (dapper bass player Douglas McIntyre runs Flesh’s label, Creeping Bent, after all), but to my tattered imagination the opening instrumental Sexual Objects squall seems to deliberately scour Flesh from the stage, with Davy Henderson hunkered down next to a mini-amp that has been de-“halled” to simply read “Mars”. As the splendidly tense ‘Culture Supervisor’ loosens its grip, we’re transported to somewhere the Spiders might indeed feel at home. ‘Queen City Of The Fourth Dimension’ is glorious, drummer Ian Holford providing handclaps and backing vocals with heartwarming conviction, and if tonight’s rendition of ‘Midnight Boycow’ overdoes the scrapyard thing its majesty still survives intact. Majesty builds as guitarist Graham Wann joins Holford for some uplifting Flo & Eddie vocal action behind Henderson’s inimitable drawl. ‘Merrie England’ percolates, as does”Full Penetration’ while ‘Here Come The Rubber Cops’ finds these guys delivering such sterling performances I later feel especially wretched about nabbing a taxi in front of them post-gig. I should have jumped on top of a stationary vehicle and thanked the whole band for bestowing levels of cauterization to this song’s denouement that matched Television at their best.
Kevin Ayers’ heartfelt ‘Soon Soon Soon’ concludes the set and the refrain strikes a chord: “We know what you mean, we know what you’ve seen, we understand”. I’ve heard the song before, on Marc Riley’s show earlier in the week and I liked it. To me, at this moment, it’s become a beautiful thing to sing to end the night. A night where two out of three ain’t bad: in fact two out of there have been pretty damn wonderful. Hey, I want to Wake The President and broadcast the news: I like my Sexual Objects with only the merest hint of Flesh.
The first word that comes to mind when Wake The President take the stage is economy. Economy as template, not limitation. A certain classicism of sound and look: thrift-shop jumpers and Scandinavian college crops impress the eye as a frenetic urgency engages the ear, kick-starting a hotly anticipated evening. ‘Last Exit For The Lost’ adds texture on the spring reverb of a Fender Twin and a Vox tube amp. Guitars truly ring like the peel of bells, just as they should come Sunday evening on the King Tut’s stage. ‘She Fell Into My Arms’ nimbly soundtracks the implications of its title – it’s a song safely held in a stream of sonic disorder. Interplay between guitar twins Björn and Erik grows exponentially as dry ice starts to emanate onto the stage – maybe that’s why I can almost detect a touch of early Cure here and there. And that’s a compliment. Already masters at tonal colouration and possessing a demeanour utterly suited to their chosen field, Wake The President are extremely good – perhaps a chorus away from being very splendid indeed.
Flesh’s set commences promisingly, with a vocal-free heavy summer vibathon which positively bounces along, then, as a figure from a back projection screen repeats the word “Flesh” ad infinitum, Sharon Martin takes the stage to offer some proficient vocals as the material nosedives. Grammy-winning producer and ex-Altered Image Stephen Lironi’s impressively propulsive drumming is wasted on fare such as the clumsily titled ‘This Afternoon Tomorrow.’ Cue cliché after cliché as, visually, the way of all Flesh’s set is to trawl through a slew of over-familiar iconography: a worn litany of Warhol, Studio 54, Edie Sedgwick, Campbell’s soup cans, Amanda Lear, John Wayne, Lichtenstein, Coca-Cola, eighties break-dancers, Soul Train and Minnie Mouse that concludes, with stunning predictability, with the signature Warner Brothers’ sign-off “That’s All Folks!”.
Martin is a capable if somewhat bland performer, but lyrics of the caliber of “We’ve got to be strong if we’re going to survive” alienate your correspondent, which would be an agreeable enough condition were it of some Brechtian dialectic nature, but it’s more a case of gazing askance at someone else’s party in full swing as Lironi’s wife, Claire Grogan, and friends jig with unfettered abandon and whoop loud approval from the floor. Their endorsement is understandably partisan, but I feel numb and dumbed-down, enclosed inside some A&R showcase bubble somewhere between 1987 and 1991. As the Sexual Objects will later sing: ‘Outta Place Again’.
The sonic signifiers of the mid-80s to early 90s are nothing to be ashamed of. Hey, WIN were a great band, even as they had to mind the gravy train of remixers. And they still are, somewhere in the washes of Foamy Space Time. Because ultimately it doesn’t matter what the building blocks are. Put the man with the most febrile, fertile imagination since Mark E. Smith into any creative situation and genius will out. That man is Davy Henderson of The Fire Engines, WIN, Nectarine No.9 and The Sexual Objects. He is a demi-god next to Flesh’s Demi Moore.
Now, I’m sure this wasn’t the case (dapper bass player Douglas McIntyre runs Flesh’s label, Creeping Bent, after all), but to my tattered imagination the opening instrumental Sexual Objects squall seems to deliberately scour Flesh from the stage, with Davy Henderson hunkered down next to a mini-amp that has been de-“halled” to simply read “Mars”. As the splendidly tense ‘Culture Supervisor’ loosens its grip, we’re transported to somewhere the Spiders might indeed feel at home. ‘Queen City Of The Fourth Dimension’ is glorious, drummer Ian Holford providing handclaps and backing vocals with heartwarming conviction, and if tonight’s rendition of ‘Midnight Boycow’ overdoes the scrapyard thing its majesty still survives intact. Majesty builds as guitarist Graham Wann joins Holford for some uplifting Flo & Eddie vocal action behind Henderson’s inimitable drawl. ‘Merrie England’ percolates, as does”Full Penetration’ while ‘Here Come The Rubber Cops’ finds these guys delivering such sterling performances I later feel especially wretched about nabbing a taxi in front of them post-gig. I should have jumped on top of a stationary vehicle and thanked the whole band for bestowing levels of cauterization to this song’s denouement that matched Television at their best.
Kevin Ayers’ heartfelt ‘Soon Soon Soon’ concludes the set and the refrain strikes a chord: “We know what you mean, we know what you’ve seen, we understand”. I’ve heard the song before, on Marc Riley’s show earlier in the week and I liked it. To me, at this moment, it’s become a beautiful thing to sing to end the night. A night where two out of three ain’t bad: in fact two out of there have been pretty damn wonderful. Hey, I want to Wake The President and broadcast the news: I like my Sexual Objects with only the merest hint of Flesh.
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