iForward, Russia! - The Sugarmill, Stoke - 5/3/07
4/5
By: Alex Lee Thomson
iForward, Russia! are the embodiment of what we refer to as indie - in their morals, at least. Their debut album wasn't just one of the best of last year and a schematic display of how to produce and mix, but being released through their own label (Dance To The Radio) it proved that you could be truly, and we mean truly, self-determining and still make something of an impact. It's live though when the wonder that is F'russia really smacks you round the ear like that Tango bloke - and didn't the Stoke crowd just know it.
The swarming and rampant mob that had seen Saddle Creek marvels Cursive below out a cavorting and writhing warm up set quickly turned their attentions towards an iconic 'i!' symbol that hovered above the stage, ominously waiting excitedly and portentously for the near-future events of the near-future sounding orchestrated band to come to fruition. Tom, Whiskas and company enter stage left and suddenly the indecipherable shit hits the fan. There's frenzied mayhem and belated wonderment from a derisorily stunned and assessed audience.
Panic hits in as the first of their eccentric and confusingly named 'number' tracks plays to a now swelling, sweating and sweltered multitude that flash instantly into a swarming mob of spiked and aggression fuelled pranksters hell bent on rock and roll upheaval. There's a faint smell of fire, blood and beer and though the music could be the soundtrack to the destruction of man, there's very little stopping an interacted and utterly captivated stream of adorers revelling in every second it. Each track shells its way into the next and while Tom battles with a mic wire that laces its way around his body like a coiling serpent, the set jolts, writhes and thrives into a shocking verbal and un-musically economical expansion of reverberations that take hold of your heart, rips it from your chest and contemptuously holds it up to you. Their sound, a massive wall of blistering and dazzling electronic wonderments, echoes around a disaster bound flock and into the very woodwork of the building.
The Sugarmill is known for extraordinary gigs but this one by far expels the expectations of anybody in the club. Though the lyrics come at you like a shotgun wielding maniac, bleeping and bleating senselessly, there's nothing to stop the ceaseless physical display of explicit love shown towards these heroes of the British music standard. The atmosphere persists, the swagger of stuttered youth and elated harmony grips a sold out dancefloor and you find yourself on hands and knees fighting for control with everybody around you and heavily breathing under the hope that soon the show will let up, slow down and chill the f**k out.
The potential downfall of iForward, Russia! is that their music just keeps on going, powering beyond any mechanical bunny almost to the point of annoyance. Their bold and restless harmony strikes with iron like fury second after second for what seems like an eternity, shattering your body and mind into a billion splinters of adolescent exuberance. 'Nineteen' hollows out what's left of your energy and delightfully drops you into 'Nine' with the poise of a ridiculously fat bloke trying to pirouette while pissed as a fart and demands recession and obsession.
Everything about F'russia's performance works, from the brazen wardrobe and dramatic body movements to their gigantically persuasive vocals, and as people filed out, linked as brothers in arms, there's an end-of-term excitement and vivid luminosity that rains down on a heated gathering that have seen, as it appears, one of the best shows to ever hit The Mill.
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