(review n pix by neil crud)
While we were stuffing pizza into our gobs, we watched Emyr Ankst stuffing sound equipment into his van at the end of the night, and I commented on my envy for people able to make/scrape a living out of music. It must be glorious to make money out of something you love and enjoy, and whereas I spend all my spare money on music, or music related sundries (like beer!), Emyr must warm to the fact that he is in a position to face the guillotine and issue such outrageously resplendent material as Dogbones and Klaus Kinski, and (sometimes) get paid for doing it. So it is hats off to Ankstmusic and another nod in Emyr’s direction for making tonight’s spectacle possible, here, in Upper Bangor.
‘Everyone in Bangor goes to Caernarfon on Bank Holiday Sunday.’ Quipped Sarah as she was bumped into by the loitering Jack Sharp, Tom Price, Alan Holmes, Duncan Black and the new Inferno CD touting Jim Lee. Their presence was evidence enough that this was to be a select audience, and those who were Cofi bound would not have understood the page that was about to be torn from The Book of Life. With Caernarfon as a preferred destination for many, and Leeds-Reading Festival draining the bank accounts of others, you may fear that tonight’s bands would be playing to a select few. Not the case, although not to capacity, this A1 room above Rascals is a venue of near sonic perfection. I had the honour (for that is what it was) of meeting Dave, the noise terrorist behind Whales, and he was marvelling about the room, with it’s wooden floor and sound bouncing hard walls – he wasn’t wrong, and neither were Entity (pic below), who opened up the gates of hell and it all let loose on the ear drums from then on.
Being virgin to all three bands tonight, my cherry was throbbing at the excitement of being popped in a menage trois of guitar driven spunk, sweat and ear wax. I have played all three several times on my Crudcasts over the years, and despite not playing crowd favourite Paper Girlfriend, I’d say Entity are far better at looking you in the eye than they are on CD (and they’re really good on CD!) – this is brutal lounge metal, fist clenching, head banging and throat ripping; just like mother used to be… ‘Fuck your judgement and fuck your hypocrisy, I couldn’t give a fuck if you bleed or breath, fuck you and everything you pretend to be,’ spits Jxhn as he ensures his glare is fixated upon each and everyone of us, long enough to make us feel uncomfortable and profess that our standards are not true to our beliefs. A few of Bangor’s local acid-crazed nutcases all crashed the joint to ensure this was not going to be an evening where appreciation of music was through polite applause as they proceeded to bounce and mosh their way though everybody, fitting in perfectly with the ear-splitting assault going on up front.
The soft meat of Wendykurk‘s extraordinary album quite appropriately rotted, and the spores of the corpses that made up that Holyhead band blew to various corners of the country. They mutated in the underworld, damaged DNA was trapped between the floorboards of graffitti strewn squats. Amongst the needle infestated piles and mould laden discarded takeaway wrappings grew two bands; Manchester’s Dethkats and London’s Dogbones. The split single on Ankstmusic Mae Dy Ffrindiau i Gyd, like the band is a pharmaceutically induced nightmare trip into Dogbones’ subhuman existence. For the 35 minutes they’re on stage they allow you into that fucked up world, and it is fucked up, but you don’t walk in, you stand at the doorway, staring in with morbid fascination as the unhinged talent before you, screams, cries, laughs, and (most of all) entertains you. Equivalents are hard to find, on record, yeah, there is a talent of bands doing this stuff, and it’s all psychopunkabilly brilliance. But live, Dogbones take you to a lower level, beneath the Batcave, to The Last Chance Hotel where the bedsheets are still damp from Mr and Mrs Fiend’s alien sex orgy. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave…
Whereas Dogbones exist in that twilight world, Klaus Kinski (pic above) simply should not exist, they have no right to exist. When God created man in his own image Klaus Kinski were the shit stain left in his undies. I stood there (at a safe distance) in jaw-dropping wonder/bewilderment. Words evade me in all honesty; ask me to find a comparison and Y Geiriadur Crud is bereft of descriptions – in a visual sense they’re a bit like GG Allin without the excrement. Musically? Take the the inmates that dribble the most from Rampton and Broadmoor, inject heroin into their eyes, feed them ketamine mars bars, give them guitars and shoot them in the face – that is basically it. The phrase, ‘Must see Klaus Kinski before you die’ doesn’t work here, it should read ‘Must see Klaus Kinski and die.’ Many of you will hate it, but will be compelled nevertheless to witness such an anti-phenomenon, a barrage of dischordial noise acting as a starting point for the band to launch themselves into the walls, floor, ceiling and audience regardless of (anyone’s) lives or limbs.
An unwitting punter who got too close was hauled onto the stage by his neck and grappled to the floor by the bearded front-thing, who proceeded to wrap himself around him and continue screaming the vocals. And where Entity’s Jxhn previously feared to tread after climbing the Marshall stack and gingerly climbed back down, Klaus had no problem, he climbed one higher (barefoot) and jumped off, landing kind of head first. They were a motorway pile up and everyone left smiling from the fact that we all survived and lived to tell the tale.
Promoting their new split single, a cover of Datblygu‘s Gwlad Ar Fy Nghefn, this band, who have a reputation of emptying venues are now a priority in your life. BUY THE 7″ SINGLE, WATCH THE VIDEO and most importantly SEE KLAUS KINSKI IN THE TORN FLESH – see them with your own eyes, not through my interpretation.
I have now been blessed, it’s your turn next.