Mclusky / Yourcodenameis:milo / Father Of Boon - London Highbury Garage - 6/5/04
4/5
By: Samantha Hall
What an idyllic bill. Tastefully, the British Father of Boon hit the tiles first with their psychedelic, quantum offerings of saxophone-splattered wrench-rock. Sounds convoluted - and we're the last not to admit that the mention of sax amidst punk-rock arouses illusions of attempts at bad ska and NOFX-tribute bands. But Father of Boon's saxophone screechings are actually vastly complimentary; if this were to be a one-on-one cosier club show then the squawks would create a similar effect to having a feline screaming at you in the eyes at 4 in the morning. And, bizarrely, that's not meant in any derogatory sense whatsoever.
Mycodenameis:milo however rump up Father of Boon's ass, worth every inch of hype and media attention they sprawl. We can confidently say that this is the new face of art-collector/screamo ramblings. Unfettered guitar heroics that show no concessions for blatant choruses or structures. Fact: yourcodenameis: milo are visceral and emotional hardcore; none of this emo-shod for miles.
Immediately, Mclusky snap your jaw back in line. After working with the Gabriel of all art-rock graces, Steve Albini, on their latest album 'The Difference Between Me And You Is That I'm Not On Fire', his spirited magic finger is proverbially evident on a lot of their set. More cynical in soul and - to be blunt - exhaustively meaner than even 'Mclusky Do Dallas', the attitude of their latest offering oozes and, sadly, slightly frosts over their relationship with the crowd; certainly, Mr Albini is famed and favoured for his thorough, dour demeanour - but has this made the gents icy too?
The components on 'Do Dallas' took your emotional wounds and rubbed salt into them; you turned around for a sympathetic embrace and the Welsh lads kicked sand in your face. It was a brutal, malevolent record. But this new material is even harder. Ramming mascara wands into your eyes would be the imagery more fitting, but we suppose, really, why is this such a surprise? Where was the threesome to go from here - after their abrupt dismissal of drummer Matt Harding and the simply gigantic anticipation of their follow-up - they were but to evolve, and this masochist path is the one they have chosen.
The Garage is known to be a toughie sometimes. The lack of barrier mean fists wave and salute directly up the noses of the band, and so crowd enthusiasm - although nonetheless appreciated - can strain, and the patience does certainly drain. However, Mclusky don't just get pissed off - no, they're mightily f**ked off; Falkous threatening the crowd about what he'll do if he gets his front teeth knocked out by flailing limbs isn't exactly courteous. (The fact that these flailing limbs belong to lanky, floppy-haired youngsters that are crushed and tangled within an inch of their lives by thrashing big boys two rows behind them seems irrelevant in the matter.)
But maybe that is the real detail - that no one cares. With every threat, they applaud louder. Every vengeful and frustrated kick up the ass Chapple gives to crowd-surfers, they bawl and adore more intensely. It's the honest brutality - their aggressive appreciation that we love. A sadistic love affair, indeed.
Your Feedback
Login to post your comment