Review - New Heartbeats 3, London, The Windmill, 06.06.09
The Brixton Windmill is, effectively, a shoebox tucked under the collective shelf of South London. It folds its arms together tightly in a suitably muted corner of the area, not helped by its timid size. As such, the privilege of synonymy is usurped by its starched, conceited older brother a few blocks away. Nonetheless, the merits of a small venue and, indeed, a smaller stage are exemplified in the Windmill, where sounds made are engrossed in a homely, familiar resonance. The results are unabated, often palpable performances, distant from the constraints and banal intricacy of the corporate vanguard and likely to impose themselves on our memory for some time. By implication, the venue is credited as the intrepid springboard for nonpareil new bands and burgeoning talents with a rampant penchant for innovation. The Little Stalkers, clearly, are in no mood to break with convention, curating the third of what, by rights, should be a consistent exhibition of the exotic, adept and relatively clandestine in modern music.
The Electrilickers, for instance, first to perform, adapt seamlessly to a compacted setting and modest technical facility, given their inclination towards far bigger, digitised sounds. Despite replacing loops and reverbs with an acoustic guitar and percussion, the band retains a subtle, fatalistic sheen, reflective of an intricate musical proficiency and confrontational swagger. Songs are less played than consumed by the audience in short, attentive bursts, in which lyrics remain no less acute, carried by clinical, pragmatic percussion, avoiding redundant bravado. An acrid vocal curve, meanwhile, pervading the simple, faceless charm exhausted by many a female vocalist, asserts itself to full effect in the band’s sedated cover of Billie Holiday, representing, ultimately, a very clean vein of accessibility and veracity, traits scarcely seen in a great wealth of acts.
TallShips, on later, are a band that elude any form of single recognised classification for music. Exhibiting elements of post rock, electronica, math and some residual jubilance throughout, the Falmouth trio, conversely, appear completely placated in their ambiguity, resigned to entertain each facet both methodically and simultaneously. What we hear, therefore, is a fervent conflict between the intricacies of a number of their facets and the unfettered vigour of the others. Flitting, innocent guitars and stuttering percussion are made to consort with the lean, binary belligerence of thick synth, facilitating a brazen affinity for sporadic instrumental intermissions and unabated, anarchic conclusions to many songs. Nonetheless, on other tracks, such as the requested Song About Sunshine, the very same bothersome synth, together with a zealous vocal curve, is the only guiding hand to tuneful excess, illustrating the song’s frivolity before relenting to a sedated musical escalade. In the end, the fact that TallShips, for all their ventures into countless styles and sounds, never misplace their brand of scrambled funk renders their set here unmistakeably noteworthy.
A partial departure from the unremitting music, and one that renders this latest iteration of New Heartbeats the most arresting, is brought with the reclined hilarity and panache of Derrick Brown. Striking a solitary pose at the centre of the stage, his purpose, at first instance, appears ambiguous to the incrementally mounting crowd, as he discusses, with veracious, brutal conviction, the parameters of Sandwich Karate, in which neglected foods are attacked. It becomes quickly apparent that such sporadic wit is both the punctuation and relief that must flank the inexorable poignancy of Brown’s poems. London is read with a ruminating, almost whimsical demeanour, though carried by a prepared musical accompaniment, coercively illustrating the requisite tone and setting of the words. What follow are modern, often allegorical sonnets, odes to physical romance and infatuation rather than regal, distant feelings, delivered in a firm inseam of humour. As such, a personal pantheism with the audience is maintained, only augmented by Brown’s prodigious grasp on emotion and exuberance in recitation. The notions escape their fetters in Church of The Broken Axe Handle, a piece introducing divine connotations and redemption to simple friendship with piercing severity. Clearly, no one is left unscathed by both the comedic calibre and acrid sensibilities of this man.
It would be this edition, then, that accentuates New Heartbeats and, by implication, The Little Stalkers' insatiable eye for unique, delectable sounds. These are, and will be, nights not to be missed.
Karim
