Feature, Reviews

A WEREWOLF / OUI LEGIONNAIRES / TRANSMISSIONS MONROE’S CELLAR BAR, WORCESTER, THURSDAY JUNE 11th, 2015 Live Review | Ed Ling

June 25, 2015

A WEREWOLF / OUI LEGIONNAIRES / TRANSMISSIONS

MONROE’S CELLAR BAR, WORCESTER, THURSDAY JUNE 11th, 2015

Every town has its underground. Both artistic and physical. Sometimes you find both in the same place at the same time. Take this subterranean guitar-based cacophpony down in a bare brick barrel vault underneath Foregate Street. On a schoolnight. For example.

Transmissions. Sexy, howling, blocky as fuck post-rock beasts. Deep in the vein of Neu or Drive Like Jehu, and fronted by a febrile creature who alternately screamed and crooned along the edge of an emotional straight razor, this was powerful, soulful stuff and no mistake.

 

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

I’ve already written about the hooky and quietly eccentric hardcore trio Oui Legionnaires elsewhere this month (due later this week on the site). They clearly like to put it about. But anyway. Down in this semi-airless bunker of venue, they were undeniably spunky without being brash. And quite delightfully abrasive.

 

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

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B at Gippa

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

And then there was the real point of the evening. A recital of jazz-math nutjob noise courtesy of Evesham’s two-piece drum and guitar combo A Werewolf!. Musically, this was Shellac or some other high-end analogue dischordancy ripped to the little gills on an olympic dose of Ritalin – and played at three times the normal speed. More time changes than you could easily count or track -and equally as many ideas – this was as progressive and tight as it was unhinged.

The proper start of proceedings was delayed by the drummer soundly and spectacularly braining himself on the low ceiling of the aforementioned brick vault while capering about during the set intro. That the fellow was back hammering his kit at an inhuman speed within ten minutes, blood pouring down his face and spraying around like some kind of latterday Terry Butcher in a Hawaiian shirt was itself a thing to behold. Radical.

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

B at Gippa

 

Words: Ed Ling

All Images B At Gippa

gippa.co.uk

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