Someone’s slipped in a DVD of Inglourious Basterds, its opening scenes of terse dialogue and floorboards machine gunned to splinters playing silently behind Plyci‘s opening set. And if you’re thinking there’s going to be some sort of tortuous analogy here between the visuals and the whipsmart electro being pushed from the speakers you’re only half right: while Gerallt Ruggiero’s beat warping has been weirder and more slippery in the past, the luxury bleeping still comes with sharp teeth. Breezing from section to section, this is swish and, ha, cinematic stuff. More high class fare next: Land Of Bingo are disgustingly elegant, all trimmed beards, good looks and scarily expensive looking, casually worn suit jackets. Their music is the direct equivalent – keyboard-heavy electroplush that sounds like the Pet Shop Boys draped in dalmatian furs, or a yacht made out of ivory. One of the keyboard players (white shirt, black tie) does his best to puncture the posh mood though, via a series of gnomic ramblings, and by grinding his hips into his instrument in a slightly sex pest-y way. Good in places, it all goes on a little so…
To a rammed Promised Land, and the first of pie-eyed blog champs Pint Of 45‘s forays into gig organisation. Of all the things to say about Daylight Fireworks (vaguely competent indie rock, guitarist who’s definitely had sex with a mirror), let’s just show the setlist. Yes, they had to remind themselves to say hello and goodbye.
Last year’s (debut?) Milk Race show for Lesson No.1 was patchy and underwhelming; tonight they play like kids who’ve had a sudden growth spurt and are now really good at writing raucous buzzsaw pop. It’s febrile stuff that flourishes best in these sauna conditions, Chris Warlow’s face sweating next to yours, his guitar neck whacking your legs on one of the many ‘meet the audience’ sessions. There’s ex-Martini Henry Rifles and Mo-Ho-Bi-Sho-Pi members involved if you want details, but this is all about proximity, volume, instruments scattered on the floor, and snarling, joyful songbending. Good scenes.
It’s Gindrinker. They are the rot that holds Cardiff together, the damp stain on your wall that looks a bit like Jimmy Tarbuck. If you don’t like them, you are an idiot. So even though this gig is number [insert comedy large figure here] for the guitar/skronk/drum machine/cornet/abuse duo, they still spew out a succession of blackly brilliant moments. Refusing to play ‘Covered In Bugs’, their best song (I forget why; drunk). A random mention of Detroit techno act Drexciya. Opening the venue’s dartboard with precise comic timing during Jim Bowen-fest ‘God Of Darts’. Graf almost falling down the stairs. Post gig, after being accosted by a drunken forty-something man, singer DC will note, half proud, half disappointed, “Gindrinker will never get groupies.” Throw yourself at them.