Tomahawk / The Melvins / Kaada / Guapo - London Kentish Town Forum - 18/7/03
4/5
By: Thomas Hannan
There are some strong candidates for the dubious honour of the title 'Strangest Night Out in London', but surely, this takes the biscuit. This is the ugly side of rock and roll, the one you're afraid to make eye-contact with but at the same time can't afford to look away from. Blink and you'll miss it. Open your ears and they're likely to start bleeding.
In fact, they're already starting to feel a little sore. Places please, ladies and gentlemen, as Guapo are about to rock your soul. Theirs is entirely instrumental and proudly progressive rock music, with keyboards that contort and swirl over, underneath and to the side (depending on how they feel) of an equally mesmerising bass-guitar. It's wondrous, but it's the unfathomably intricate drumming that has the group by the scruff of the neck, dictating its every move.
Interesting, you think, but somewhat lacking in pace? But before you can even grant the thought closure, the music runs away at such a speed you spend a good few minutes trying to catch up. It's typical of their set - Guapo give you what you want and then enjoy watching people reconsider whether they should have wished for it in the first place. Nobody thought it'd be this hard to handle. They end, fittingly, by letting the audience soak up the reverberations of a gong through the ringing in their ears. Guapo instead soak up the sound of a standing ovation.
The basis that something as peculiar as Kaada can come as light relief points to the way this night is heading. Although his glitter-showering, quirky keyboard antics don't exactly fit too comfortably into the rest of the evening, he at least provides some much needed comedy. So Kaada jumps from monitors onto sampler buttons crammed with off-the-wall noises and dialogue in a brave attempt to convert a hard rock crowd. Maybe it's just the fact that he's sandwiched between two amazingly multifaceted bands, but his compositions just seem a tad half-formed in comparison. Still, he rightly gains a favourable reception from most of the audience, but however, the people who aren't so taken seem to have bottles (and good aim). Admirably, he ends on a song called 'Thank You for Giving Me Your Valuable Time' whilst both applause and empty glasses fly his way.
No such humility from The Melvins. They arrive with drummer Dale Crover in women's lingerie, bassist Kevin Rutmanis and guitarist King Buzzo dressed in shirts with large 'F' and 'U' letters emblazoned across them. The sentiment is clear but serious. This is the heavy, heavy hits of The Melvins from dark beginning to positively pitch-black end. They've always seemed more like some kind of enigma than your average band, so at first interest in their set comes from just acknowledging them as people who do actually exist. Next, you can let the music really beat you up.
And this hurts. Although some of the finest moments come in their calmest patches, they do to an extent play it safe this evening by reeling out the heaviest, scariest Melvins classics one by one. Disappointing? Not in the slightest. Let's get this straight, The Melvins are stunning. This is only a support-slot after all, but the likes of a crushing rendition of 'Hooch', or a frankly awesome 'The Bloat' are faultless no matter where they come in an evening. They leave you with feelings of both disgust and reverence. And that's entirely fitting.
Mike Patton's taking a break from his 'legend' status and is out sound-checking his instruments when a pro-Patton chant starts at the front of the crowd. Unimpressed, he showers his followers in spit. Although his marvellous Tomahawk may sound decidedly accessible considering what's gone before them, this makes one thing clear - they are not your friends.
Nor are they your enemies (despite greeting the evening's audience as 'Fish and chips eating mother f**kers'). There's less chance to interact with Tomahawk; it's as if you just have to accept what they do and if possible, enjoy it to the full. By the sight of the swirling mass of The Forum, Tomahawk have been accepted. The variation to the heavy metal template they bring consistently delights and surprises, but never quite to the point of pretension. It means Tomahawk can remain both shocking (in part thanks to the diversity of Patton's voice, switching from whispering croon to chilling scream effortlessly) and bizarrely tuneful, as the reception for fantastic 'Mit Gas' highlight 'Rot Gut' and signature-tune 'Flashback' prove.
The rapturous reception is again something to do with sheer respect. Perhaps it explains the fan-base, Murderdolls and Marilyn Manson T-Shirts standing uneasily beside garments inscribed with the logos of bands members of Tomahawk used to call home (The Jesus Lizard, Faith No More, Mr Bungle, countless others). Tomahawk milk it and sadly loose urgency in the process. Thanks to an arguably unnecessary encore, you're left not so much gagging for more as relieved that you've survived intact.
In full, the night has done its best to destroy its audience. And who'd have thought they'd become this addicted?
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