Tonight it's a six band special with some of the Leeds and District gentry cavorting on the same boards. It's all from the independent white rock segment, for sure, but the bill is very enticing. With gig congestion building up like the traffic in Headingley it's hard to pass up the chance to be here tonight. All the names are potential headliners, so the running order looks a bit random. We'll take 'em as they came.Joe Catchpole was video mixing like Marathon Man onto the venue's superb screen behind the stage, and you have to say that the effect was just splendid. Joe had done his homework and we got fantastic montages of video, graphics and stills that fitted each band, each number and each mood and tempo to perfection. The man and the equipment were stars throughout.
Black Wire, as the early doors debut ensemble, were distressed and dishevelled in a perfect image of a trio recently torn from their slumbers. 8.39 is a mite early for young men who look to be just coming down from last night. But what the hell. They went for it. "Welcome to Sandman, welcome to Parisman, welcome man ... we are Black Wire" pouted Dan. And they delivered their snarling narcotic goods for 21 precious minutes. The single "Attack, Attack, Attack" was second up of five. Its treble-heavy assault defined the whole set pretty well. A lugubrious pose is half the show. The music serves up the outsider-cool backdrop and the twitchy physical presence gives secret joy to those who know what's happening. The high stage doesn't serve their trips into audience contact too well, and even a strip to underpants with strategic bottle as profile-enhancement doesn't whip it up like they would have wanted. Some laughs and some joshing - but it isn't making full contact yet. The first hundred or so through the door are just getting a feel for the place.
This Et Al have some equipment distress that delays their start and has the audience adding up six sets and five 25 minute changeovers with a bit of trepidation. This could be a late one. This Et Al look fine against the video backdrop but they sound a bit fazed by the delay and their music doesn't flow as sweetly as it can. No matter. They give it some very fine rumbly grunge, some sweet flights of melody and loads of inventive guitar sculpture. I get a sense of an artist's sketchbook - full of great observations, textures and details. But I'm left waiting for the finished work that brings it all together in the dazzling display that This Et Al are going to produce some day pretty soon. They announce their impressive musical ambition on a big stage, and everyone believes them.
As the 9.44 curfew cracks its policeman's knuckles a bewilderingly efficient crew take everything to pieces, put it all back together, install two beautiful Shure 55 mikes and in 16 minutes we are already into the Somatics. Oh yes. The running order is starting to make sense. There's a whole step up in the confident roar of performers who have done audiences a few times before. The connected music powers thought the PA in top middle and bottom registers and we can see what "professional" might mean in these days of the self propelled, self financing artist. The Somatics are building something a bit solid on the foundations of the pared-down sound of the first album. This is muscular and dense music with highly individual and compelling vocals from Stephanie and Richard Green. It's in a parallel universe to today's skinny garridge stuff, but it could slip its subtle knife through the wall at any time. It still has a caustic edge to it that keeps it interesting. There's a moment to treasure as a Rickenbacker guitar launches a mutated but full-throated exploration of "Ghost Riders in the Sky" cowboy territory. But it's "just doin' its job, mam" and the song is the thing. Good stuff. The quality is coming through and the crowd is filling the room with a happy buzz.
The audience is constantly regrouping - the faces in the main auditorium are mirrored in the band on stage at the time. Others come and go from the connected bar area. The press of people has built up steadily. It's pretty full by 10.45 and even more stuff has been finessed on and off the stage. This is better than Leeds Fest for ruthless equipment shifting. Like the Somatics, Four Day Hombre have done plenty of work on stage and musical presentation over the years and it makes for a good set. There's a big fat drum sound, and keyboards and guitars provide a varied setting for their fine tunes and distinctive vocals. The single gets an extended treatment with maybe a bit more wigging out than it needs. But it leads on well to "our next single" which is a sit down at the piano thing that confirms the shift towards Coldplay territory evident in "'The First Word Is The Hardest'" Four Day Hombre have the look and feel of a seasoned band on their second or third album. They're achieving more by seeming to try less than they used to. Something to do with maturity I guess. They let themselves go a bit mental at the end, with some outrageously random piano hammering and noisemongering to finish a triumphant set. Their 11.16 finish gets the biggest cheer so far and the floor (and stage) clears for another audience transplant.
At 11.29, six unashamed rejects from the Pete Waterman school of pap take to the stage as one. Les Flames! seem to be ready. Your reviewer feels a huge surge of joy and adrenalin as they burst the seams of one-hit-wonderdom with a set that outstrips all they've done before. "Thundermoose" kicks it off, "Just Say No" takes it upfield and four more punky power pop surges hurl the garage gimmick pretence right over the grandstand roof. This is the terrific rootstock rock and roll music that your mother used to make. Rude words, harmony singing, cheeky blokish lead vocalling and grindingly happy guitars and pounding drums. Neil Hanson quips "Is this our last ever gig ... ? ... is it, fuck!" "Beast" at the end of the set has various Kittens, Wires and other tall people spasm-hurling on stage. They look a bit unsafe. All the faces in the room are grinning like fools.
Meanwhile, Whiskas has slipped out of the melee and has climbed up over the exit door, where a loading space has been collecting drum stools and flight cases. He's whanging away on the guitar and cracking his head on the 15 foot high ceiling. Suddenly he drops the guitar and launches himself into outer space on the very last beat of the tune. It is a very long way down into the darkness. But He Lives! He limps out the back for therapy and re-emerges later with only minor damage. What a pro. What a set.
Parisman don't make a big fuss on their own behalf. They have spent a long time creating their very individual sound, exploiting the luxury of two fine vocalists in Shaun Halloran and James Scholes and blending guitar, synthesised and sampled music into a natural and convincing whole. You might consider Massive Attack or Primal Scream if you were wondering who to put them next to in the CD rack. Tonight's show is a sense-juddering onslaught of beats and tunes that swirl from old favourite " Plasticine Boy" at one end of the set to new number "Loosely Connected" at the other. There's a new-sounding slower thing called "White Russian" which sounds very tasty too. Dressed in clown costumes and hurling entrails around the stage, this lot would take over the world within the year. With music alone, they'll take it one gig at a time. Keep an ear out for the next EP.
The crowd has thinned a bit - but we're talking about a twenty past midnight start, and the room still feels excited and full. Only a band with the precision and dynamism of Parisman could hold this spot together. They do a great job and we're all feeling very good about the night, the music, and our own stamina. One or two have enjoyed the late bar as well. Cheers!
Mark Sturdy, Jan and all the others from Sandman who have organised the gig - and the LMU crew who have worked a heroically long shift - plus the various DJ types who have kept the between-set music up to scratch have done a great job. Let's do it again soon.
