The first band on (god I hate when bands don't introduce themselves!) take this in stride, as their singer decides to use it as his personal catwalk. This is the best thing about them. You think I'm joking? The flyer said "Future rock'n'roll". These kids are thrashing around like Johnny Thunders at CBGB's in 1975. Their singer is even faking an American accent that slides from NYC to Detroit in one "Awright!" They've studied the sound and the look and even the dances so painstakingly accurately that it's hard to take them seriously, especially when you realise they've blown their entire budget on clothes and can't afford period guitars. Blame the Strokes - a new generation of indie boys with curly hair are thanking them for making the White Boy 'Fro hip again. Their frontman acts like he honestly believes he's the reincarnation of Joey Ramone until he strips off (for fucks sake! It's freezing in here!) and rolls around on the floor like Iggy Pop. Wearing two belts so his trousers don't fall down. There's a fine line between loving homage and a tribute band. You're on the wrong side, buddy!
The next band up (again, no introductions!) start with a promising tangle of discordant guitar a la Television, and my hopes raise, until suddenly they burst into spastic, Childish garage punk. Yawn. Oh wait, their drummer has just started bashing on what appears to be a toy drum machine, spewing mangled electronic beats across the mess. Wow, this is different, I like this. And then their singer opens his mouth. Mealy-mouthed and mewling, like a retard - sorry, mentally challenged - Jonathan Richman, he works the faux-naïve thing so heavily I want to slap him. Then just when I've given up, he shuts his gob and goes over to a Moog and pummels out these Rhubarb and Custard squiggles like an indie-rock Suicide and I start jiggling in my seat again. It's a back-handed compliment to say a band show "promise" isn't it? But they could be good when they figure out what they're on about.
So thank heaven for Seachange. They are not wearing silly costumes. They are not faking accents. And within thirty seconds, they have name-checked a Damien Hirst quote. They follow the spirit, not the letter of art-punk. They sound big. Really big. There are six people crammed onstage, and it's a collision of bigness, like the sprawling expansiveness Daydream Nation-era Sonic Youth thrashing with the intensity and intelligence of early Idlewild, but focused with the autistic Krautrock concentration of Quickspace. And they have a violinist. Yes I know this reeks of artschool drone or proggy pretension, but it adds a wild, Celtic, Banshee edge, a keening wail through the stormy squall of their songs.
There's a single, Superfuck, which - despite the deliberate gonzo offensiveness of the title - proves to be nothing short of hammering avante-drone-punk. The drummer stands up to wallop his kit, and the guitarists kick their overdrive pedals into shoegazing hyperspace. Yes! I'd close my eyes, transported, like the band, but the music is an overpowering, tangible force, a howling gale of beauty and anger in perfect balanced force.
Perhaps their singer errs a little too hard on the side of earnestness, veering occasionally into dangerously emo territory as he apologises for equipment troubles. But it's a relief that he actually notices the audience, bringing his mic stand right up close into the no-man's land of the catwalk until I'm afraid he's actually going to tread on me, eyes staring, bouncing off the walls with frustration and angst as he rants.
So you pick the future of rock'n'roll that you want - retrofetishistic tribute bands, undelivered promise, or the grand, sweeping art-damaged vision of Seachange.
Supports were: THE WHITE SPORT / THE BLOOD GROUP
Seachange - London On the Rocks