Saturday May 13th > YEAH YEAH YEAHS DAY

Although I was too tired to actually stick around and watch them play, and though they could be accused of blatantly picking all their friends to play and not being terribly well versed in anything happening outside of New York, I’ve nevertheless got to congratulate the YYYs on programming probably the most interesting day of either ATP weekend.

On a day concentrating largely on bracing racket, improv quartet Imaginary Folk begin proceedings on a rather more subtle note. Comprising a line-up of two violins, miniature trumpet and banjo with additional contributions from tape recorders, wah-wah and loop pedals and hissing vintage vinyl, the group immediately overcome any accusations of pretension, delivering an exquisite set of indefinable explorative music, as rich in feeling and barn-storming technique as it is in synapse-sparking ideas and unrepeatable creative u-turns. The playing is not entirely adverse to conventional harmony, as evidenced by some moments of Godspeedian swell from the violinists and some slow, jazz-style interplay between all four members, but rootless free expression and shredding of the Derek Bailey / Arto Lindsey variety soon dominates as the “perverse extended instrumental techniques” promised by the ATP festival booklet are delivered in spades. The use of cassettes, analogue noise and pedals adds another dimension to proceedings, more low-tech and yet far more effective than the tedious language of polite post-Fourtet buzzes and fizzes that modern electro/acoustic meet-ups so often seem to boil down to. By far the most low-key act of the day, Imaginary Folk nonetheless receive a rapturous response. The key to their success I think is the way they quietly smuggle warmth and humour into an area of music often seen as cerebral and inaccessible, as perfectly encapsulated by the genius moment when one of the violin ladies cues up the final minute of Sam Cooke’s ‘Let the Good Times Roll’ on the turntable whilst the group exchange short, twisted solos around it.

Imaginary Folk

It’s hard to imagine a greater contrast than with the next group who step up to the downstairs stage. Services are a militantly camp synth-rock duo, working through their teenage Gary Numan fixation via shrieked vocal chants and stabbing muscular keyboard riffs, much in the vein of The Faint or something like that. They put a lot of energy into their show, and the strobe lighting and the singer’s habit of taking flying leaps at cymbals provide talking points, but basically a bit silly and "not my thing".

Another new NY band who are very much my thing actually, Hundred Eyes kick up a formidable sand-storm for a sparse crowd as the opening act upstairs. Deeply rooted in the more abrasive aspects of the No Wave tradition, this two boy / two girl gang fronted by a guy dressed as a Middle Eastern nomad and wrenching howling open string noise from a battered custom guitar are an instantly exciting prospect. Things begin in the same ballpark as the neurotic urban crush rocked by Theoretical Girls and The Static, with the singer delivering incomprehensible bursts of tourettes over frantic, dissonant unchording, but things start to get really special as the noise spreads out and begins breathing deep, finding it’s way into the meditative headspace hinted at in the no wave dub of Sonic Youth’s debut EP before escaping the clutches of the city altogether, slowly reconfiguring the sound of deconstructionist art-rock until it no longer speaks of subway trains, syringes and breakdowns but instead explodes outward into blinding hallucinatory desertscapes, as no talent punk approximations of Eastern modes crash down over scything sheets of white noise. If you’ll allow me a moment’s indulgence, Hundred Eyes suggest the sound of William Burroughs walking head-down through the nightmare of New York he depicts in the opening to Naked Lunch, closing his eyes because he can take no more and opening them again to see the sands of North Africa stretching before him and Tangiers on the horizon, menacing, irresistible and getting closer by the minute. An ambitious coven of rock primitives, Hundred Eyes claim to be disbanding next month (on 6/6/06), so move fast!

Hundred Eyes

That Ex-Models have gone through some serious changes since they recorded the comedic spazz-out of ‘Zoo Psychology’ a couple of years back is no secret. Currently, they number two guitarists and a drummer, with the great Kid Millions joining in today on more drums, offering punishing investigations of extreme art-punk’s crossover into compositional minimalism and emerging as an industrial strength room clearance device. Not that it works on the ATP crowd who, gluttons for punishment, pack the fucking place out in the vain hope that this sensory overload will somehow transform into euphoria. Basically, imagine two po-faced Lightning Bolts playing simultaneously, looping the same five seconds of high-end riffage again and again at catastrophic volume for fifteen straight minutes. Then doing it again, slightly differently. There’s a time and a place where I could probably appreciate such senseless, alienating racket, but as overtones of Merzbow-esque noise start to cleave through the PA during the second ‘song’ and more people push in at the back to block my escape route, I decide it’s probably time to chicken out and catch a breather.

Regular readers will know well how infatuated I’ve been with Magik Markers since seeing them play at last year’s ATP. It’s difficult to explain in reasonable terms why they had such a profound effect, but let’s just say that – to paraphrase John Carpenter – they took me down to the river, kicked my ass, showed me the power and the glory. And this year they damn near do it again. It’s notable that this time around they’re spending a lot more time playing their guitars with something approaching a conventional hand / string interface, and the result is – let’s make no mistake here – a fine, FINE breathless, inspiring noise.

Other highlights include Eliza getting maximum mileage out of abusing a big muff / wah-wah combo, Leah playing guitar through a bass amp w/ keychain shredding and dramatic foot-on-monitor microphone screaming, Eliza delivering an unaccompanied rant about something so brilliant that all I remember is her staring at me and telling me not to fear when the rapture comes down. Then she lays her guitar on the ground and stomps on the stage on either side of it, making feedback explosions like a giant’s footsteps. Then she screams come-ons and mangled threats through the pick-ups, possibly making those at the back fear the amps have been possessed by the spirit of Lydia Lunch. ENOUGH! The rest of this review will be pictures:







Not a second to digest all of that before it’s time to charge upstairs, weave as far forward as I can and catch as much as possible of Oneida’s set. It feels good. Oneida feel good. With Jane now concentrating on 6 rather than 4 strings, and new touring member Double Rainbow (aka the dude out of Trans Am) on second guitar, plus a bombastic light-show, this is Oneida at full force ramming speed, setting their sights on arena rock and RULING at it. Perhaps wisely when facing an enthusiastic festival crowd, the band’s recent concentration on song-writing and arrangements is side-lined in favour of the endurance defying motorik-hardcore workouts for which they’re best known. Bench-pressing blasts through ‘Each One Teach One’, ‘Lavender’ and the ever astonishing ‘$50 Tea’ jerk my body back into classic duracell bunny-boy form, reprising the classic Oneida Effect of flailing on the spot like an electro-shock patient whilst trying to dance to beats too fast for human muscles to keep up with; and it’s good to see this time I’m not the only one. ‘Did I Die’ and ‘Spirits’ from The Wedding are transformed into unlikely fist-pounding weird-metal anthems, and just when I’m satisfied Oneida have once more risen to their own standards of excellence, they take a deep breath and invite us to look into the light light light light light light light light light light light light light light light light light light......

Oneida

Around the time of their first album, I saw Liars play a small show, with support from a certain god-awful Biritsh indie band who’d attracted quite a crowd. I remember my elation as Liars took the stage, seeing previous band’s fans literally flee in horror as a mad Australian bastard started babbling hilarious non-sequitars over uncontrolled feedback and the charred rhythmic remains of Birthday Party, Big Black et al. What joy I felt to see those kids alienated and afeared by this band who had somehow infiltrated the arena of the ‘next big thing’, only to gleefully blast the fashion crowd with this deafening mutant dance music for weirdoes! MY music, MY band!

Well I suppose it is to be applauded that since then Liars have remained consistent to their original mission statement, getting progressively nastier and weirder until tonight I’m shocked to find myself amongst the alienated and repulsed. First off, they are LOUD – I mean, like, damagingly, illegally loud. Sans earplugs and trapped in front of the speakers I’m praying from the outset that they’re gonna have mercy. No such luck though, as their set blurs into an undifferentiated assault of crashing cymbals, mindless guitar bombast and thunderous industrial noise, with Angus’ vocals and any remaining song structure buried beneath ceaseless, crippling distortion. The menacing occult atmosphere and tribal Tago Mago dementia that I so enjoyed on their ‘They Were Wrong..’ album is nowhere to be found, with jovial between-song banter ruining any pretence of participation in an evil coven happening. Instead their set seems like mere sound and fury, signifying nothing and fucking our ears in the process.

(Imaginary Folk and Oneida photos by Alex Grimster)