ATP Release The Bats – The Forum, London 30/10/08

07 November 2008, 10:05 | Written by Ama Chana

(Live)

Jeepers. As gigs are coming up thick and fast this time of season and after talking a good talk about having a super-cool themed costume all at the ready, I wasn’t even prepared for ‘Release The Bats’. My memory has been mush since I got taken down by the killer-man-flu fever doing the rounds though it has to be said. Better act fast. I make a phone call to my friend James the evening before, pleading with him if I can borrow his gruesome Saw-esque Pig-mask to which he duly obliges. Result. Just need to pick it up now… Cutting it a little fine though…

So I get to the venue excitedly and giddily oinking and snorting around quarter past 6, just a little after Rhode Island’s very own, hard-noise-spaz-core Lightning Bolt take to the er… floor for their guerrilla-style performance for the first 500 entrants (the rest viewing from the balcony). I’m on the venue floor but as expected and previous Lightning Bolt experience, I can’t see a darned thing. People directly within the band’s sight seem fully enthused and totally into it, moshing and pushing and elbowing away to the rhythmic bass, frantic drums, and distorted vocals sound. (Yes, At The Drive-In would be rollin’ in their grave!) but it seems frustrating for the outer layer on tippy toes, craning their necks to get a look in. As the set progressed I slowly get more and more into the volatile noise assault they bombarded the crowd with, and thought “screw it, I’m getting in there while it’s hot”… It was worth it but my ribs are feeling the effects now. On reflection, I always wonder if it would be best to have them play, still the floor area, but on an elevated platform just for every one’s enjoyment and plus, it would look and be darn cool. Whatever. One things for certain though, they “PWN’D” as they say on the internets. And it definitely kicks the night off to a high octane start.

So roll on the next 2 bands, Pissed Jeans and Wooden Shjips. Both bands I’ve heard mostly positive feedback about but never had the pleasure of hearing their music before. Well, I am never trusting positive feedback ever again… To be honest, Pissed Jeans were the better of the two. Playing a heavy brand of 80s garage punk rock, there was definitely enough there to make me want to source out their recent Sub pop release, Hope for Men. ‘People Person’ sounded passionate and raw and ‘Fantasy World’ grabs you with it’s loud, off-quilter instrumentals but I felt they were let down at times by their juvenile lead singer Matt Korvette, who seemed like a obsessive compulsive with the mental age of 8 who’s had too much Sunny D. One compulsion disorder seemed to be he needed to dip his microphone into every single half filled glass of beer on stage during a song while trying his best to stick his head up his arse. I swear I am not making this up.

As for Wooden Shjips, sorry but I honestly lost interest after a couple of songs. Sure they had some elements of kraut which usually is a repetitive win-win joy for me, but singer/guitarist Ripley Johnson’s meandering self-indulgent and yes, pretentious solos left me feeling cold as they aimlessly wandered into the night. The San Francisco quartet’s 60s psychedelic lacked groove and enough dynamism to hold my attention unfortunately but it did give me a chance to admire some of the Halloween costumes people had the made the effort for (not as many as I had expected but I’m thinking people are saving it for tomorrow night – it being the 31st ‘n all). I sensed the overriding feelings were shared by the crowd, at least the ones surrounding me. Every one else seemed to be waiting patiently for Les Savy Fav. And can I just say, it was totally worth the wait for the Brooklynites. They were the much needed second wind the night was crying, no, screeching out for! They were colossal and brought the night back on track.

Now I’ve been waiting a long while to witness their highly-regarded live show experience first hand and when the crowd caught a glimpse of the band, all dappered out in skeleton attire, they went bananas. Tim Harrington’s first act was to take the skeleton dude next to me by the hand and bring him on stage, bumping and grinding him like there was no tomorrow. His other acts of gratuity included simulating sex with dead corpses and stretching a mutant baby over his head. As fun as it was to behold, much like the Pissed Jeans syndrome, it did feel like the antics took away from the musicianship of the group who all seemed highly proficient and skilled in what they were doing. Odd, but very cool to see the rest of the group all in dead pan motion as this large overweight troll sleazes it up like some kind of Har Mar nightmare.

They oozed their way through crowd favorites such as ‘The Sweat Descends’ and ‘What Would Wolves Do’. A set highlight was during the funk-fuelled ‘Patty Lee’, where Tim takes to the crowd, walks up one end of the balcony, still holding the microphone still stringed back to the stage, tempting death as he dangles head first down off the railings aided by some firm gripped onlookers and returns form the other end. It gets the biggest roaring applause of the evening. Absolutely exhilarating and expertly broke down the barrier between act and audience. The moment of the evening though (apart from Shellac’s legacy set of course – more on that later) was where Tim’s look-alike takes to the stage, complete with papier-mâché head and dude-love hippy t-shirt. They begin to jive some synchronized dance moves and cap it off with a spot of crowd surfing. Brilliant. I swear if that guy doesn’t win the ATP chalet prize then there is no justice in this world. With me and my pig-mask coming in a close second obviously.

So then, what better way to cap off a fright night evening with some impeccable tightly woven noise rock from Shellac of North America. And it seems the band are fully into the spirit of things. Steve Albini dressed out as a Mummy, Bob Weston making a mean Frankenstein (“Ughhh! Ques….Tion?!” Answer ..? “Ughhh!”) and Todd Trainer looking totally the bloodied part as The Prince of Darkness himself. Yes. Dracula. They crash through ‘Squirrel Song’, where Albini’s sneering voice spits out “This is a sad fucking song!”. Weston provides accompanying busy bass lines that are low, melodic and down right dirty and Trainer plays like a human drum machine set with those long lasting Duracell batteries. The songs are intricate and tense and contain a certain amount of irony and humour that Shellac can play them like only they can. The crowd are going mental but It’s a mosh too far for me and I decide to make a swift exit out of the madness and to more civil retreat by the sound-desk (Yes I am a wuss! Sue me).

‘The End of Radio’ was worth the price of admission fee just to hear it. With its three chords on the bass, while Trainer intermittently pounds his snare with primitive force, not so much hitting his drums, but more to punish them (and always in sync I may add). In the meantime, Albini almost improvises the lyrics, evoking the last radio announcer on Earth (“We’d like to thank our sponsor, but there is no sponsor…”) and you don’t know if you want to feel frightened or bust out laughing.

When they played the haunting, harsh and now anti-anthem ‘Prayer To God’ for all music geeks worldwide, “Kill her! Just fucking kill her!” never sounded so normal and apt on an evening like this.