Here We Go Magic – Madame Jo Jo's, London 07/07/09

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You know that bit in Silence of the Lambs when Lecter chains the cop to the cell and then beats the living crap out of him with his own truncheon? Gallops’s drummer wears the self same expression as he batters several shades of shite out of his kit tonight; a look of steely composure only just betraying a queasy kind of ecstasy bubbling menacingly away just beneath the surface. Gallops turns out to be a fitting title for the Wrexham four piece, sounding as they do not a little unlike Foals bolting desperately for the middle distance, cantering Iron Maiden-esque 6/8 time signatures breathing down their necks and the spectre of nu-rave stalking their breastplate beating synth bass lines.

My Tiger, My Timing who follow, simply cannot compete, looking and sounding like some late noughties repackaging of Prefab Sprout – complete with regulatory post-punk overtones, afro-beat inspired syncopated snares and tasteful electro flourishes. There’s a likeable breezy melodicism to them but despite making all the right noises, compared to Gallops there’s very little to chew on. And then for something completely different….

Following an import only release in March, Here We Go Magic finally reach these shores to promote a deserved UK release of the eponymous LP on Bella Union. Tardy though their arrival might be, even for the keenest of listeners, not even six months is time enough to explore and digest every facet of this fascinating, multi-layered album. Recorded in a two month stream of consciousness style compositional burst by main man Luke Temple, it’s a dense, sprawling, dream-like affair encompassing rolling pitter-patter percussion, loopy dronescapes, dusty acoustics and balmy, exotic inflections; all topped off with Temple’s reedy, Byrne-esque, upper register croon.

Despite expanding to a five piece to render Temple’s four track recordings live, the material lost none of its intrigue and other worldly atmosphere. Quite the opposite in fact. For many the album might sound too wilfully lo-fi – smudged and hazy almost to the point of impenetrability in parts. Live however, its constituent parts are altogether more distinct. The components slot together with arresting clarity and Temple fighting the volume of the band on stage, wrings every last nuance from his vocals.

Non-album tracks ‘Everything’s New’ and ‘Surprise’ open proceedings and immediately benefit from some exquisite four part harmonies. The latter seems to splinter into thousands of fragments over an extended coda only to bloom into another newie “Collector”, wherein Temple and his lead guitarist’s crystalline lines intertwine as layer upon layer of overlapping micro melodies. Playing with exceptional musicianship and technique throughout, songs build from the softest taps of percussion and clipped palm muted guitar lines; a sublime ‘Only Pieces’ rolls into view like distant storm clouds gathering ominously over blasted desert plains. Album standout, ‘Fangela’ is spine-tingling as Temple’s bassist ably duplicates it’s bubbling bass line whilst his guitarist layers up its rippling, tumbling hook to close.

White Heat’s regulars file in chattering in anticipation of the weekly dance party that follows, but even they are silenced as ….Magic’s parting shot builds gracefully from a whisper to earth quaking climax. The dancefloor and stalls are left fittingly spellbound. Majestic and profoundly moving stuff from a bewitching unit who must surely return soon?

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