Pretty Girls Make Graves / Minus - London Barfly @ Monarch - 10/2/04
4/5
By: Kevin Molloy
Within the first three songs of their set, two members of the latest northern quasi-Viking invaders, Mínus (from Iceland, pronounced 'mee-nuss'), have already stripped to their bare chests, both of which are heaving as they slash their way through the stage, their songs, and the audience.
Yes, these raiders are the heroes of our age; come to ravish our ears, and slaughter pop music on the beaches of rock. The fact that the days of hair metal are long-gone to most of the world matters little to this band of men; you can almost imagine that they've been frozen in an Icelandic glacier for the last 20 years. It is a testament that two members who choose not to undress today continue to sport their Guns 'n' Roses vests. To what, we're not quite sure, but they rock louder, harder and plain better than Axl ever has.
Their set is orgasmicallly heavy; indeed Johnny, on bass, seems constantly on the verge of musical ejaculation, pounding the neck of his guitar ('caress' not being a word that features in Mínus' crib-sheet) as he does. 'Romantic Exorcism' blows the room away with its crazy rhythms and stop-starts; whilst Krummi (on vocals, and yes, they all have similarly tacky 80's names) stages a crowd invasion of such ferocity he manages to attain a two-metre berth, including his passage from the stage, in the hugely crowded Barfly. This is the stuff of dreams (or really good nightmares); we haven't been rocked this hard in a long time, and we're more than happy to be another notch in Mínus' collective bedpost.
As the ringing slowly fades away in the Barfly's obligatory half-hour changeover, it dawns upon us: the night is still yet young. On top of one of the sweatiest, most muscle-bound, long-haired young band of rockers the world has seen, we have Pretty Girls Make Graves still to come.
And they couldn't cut a more strikingly different picture. Whilst Mínus bellowed their song names into the microphone, Andrea Zollo coyly smiles at the audience, her fellow band members towering above her, as they tune with the refined air of gentleman musicians. But all it takes is one spasmodic jerk from bassist Fudesco, prompting the first song, and Zollo is transformed. Same size, same face; but now she's the girl-next-door you never knew could rock, microphone held high, or held close to her head, as if she wants us to hear the chaos ensuing therein.
But there's no need. Fudesco is shuddering over the stage with every syncopated note he plays, twin guitars wail across the thunderous rhythms being laid down by Dewitt - if Mínus pillaged heavy rock, then this is a full-scale aural air-raid. But it's all so tantric; at one moment, straight-out guitar rock, then teasingly, melodiously subtle, before becoming anthemically euphoric (brash-pop 'This is Our Emergency' and 'Speakers Push The Air' perfect examples of all three).
With no pretensions, and a genius blend of brute rock and damnedly clever and infectious rhythms, PGMG have brought '2 cool 4 skool' Camden to its knees, or more often knocked it off its feet. We're sore, bruised, panting and praising any omniscient creator to hand, merely for the invention of such a band. We just want to know if it was as good for the Pretty Girls... as it was for us.
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