Lightning Bolt - Maida Vale Studios - 31/3/04
5/5
By: Samantha Hall
Squeezed onto a balcony between Braithwaite of Mogwai and fellow chums and comrades of the artistic liberal demonstration that is ATP, Part Chimp, it's only the Wednesday after we made the resentful and somehow disillusioned rackety trek back into London down from fair, yonder Camber Sands, but this dosage tonight just fires and restores the passion, idealism and, indeed, inspiration that had been enraged after a weekend at All Tomorrow's Parties.
A rampant, sleepless dog with rabies is the imagery that just keeps pounding and filling our heads. However much you close you eyes or flinch this menacing dog is there. This ain't no scene from 'Old Yella' either. To compare to a possessed, demon dragon would be the most adequate metaphor for Lightning's Bolt's destructive, corrosive, vitriolic 'sound'. Crazed, outraged - simply terrifying hell-noises. But arousing and freeing in equilibrium.
In this intensely intimate and private audience here tonight, these reactions and feelings are physically visible - as an audience, we demonstrate that madness erratically. People are dementedly swaying and squirming and by no means in the standard 'acceptable arty shake' manner - this is imitative obsessive insania.
To think that a mere drumkit, distorted mouth-piece, and bass-guitar can create this much distress. Sticksman Brian Chippendale even still dons his trademark S'n'M mask, despite the fact he's only playing for radio. His stagecraft resembles that of an escaped psychiatric-ward patient, rattling and slamming against his instrument as he does. Like a fit - a release; his craze is our craze.
As we walk out the door in the afterglow of agony, he snaps his neck in our direction - and we don't know whether if he wants to f**k us or slit our throats. And, weirdly, that's the appeal.
Artists in this article: Lightning Bolt
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