A little longer word count than my usual reviewing, but these bands are just meant for descriptive language!
A German-formed throb of cavernous progressive metal is whipping several barrier-clutching crowd members into steady gear, as The Ocean’s spacious and layered outpourings welcome newcomers to a gradually filling Rescue Rooms with music that’s tight, immersing and proficiently delivered. Having gone through nightmarish ‘police-that-weren’t-and-stole-money-..seriously’ experiences recently, there’s an extra desperation to floppy haired vocalist Rossetti’s guttural wrenching matched by remaining member’s eyes-closed focus, within an atmospheric half hour.
As scrawny figures in tight jeans and unkempt hair brimming boyish youth to the bare bones clamber on stage, accompanied by the delicate frame of blonde princess Eva Spence..it’s sometimes easy, human even, to slip into naivety and feel suspicious of Rolo Tomassi’s reputation for fearless, frantic, monstrous experimental craft that melts faces and rarely relents. Then they, like, start to play. (farewell, preconceptions)
The UK’s finest at confounding technicality eased with geeky-fun flat out enjoyment, there’s not a second for breath when floundering screeches meet gentle croons meet keyboard dazzlement meet juggernaut guitar slam meet bass bounce meet a thousand drums meet…. you get it, it’s complex. Live you’re treated to the visual treat of a thrusting Spence who spirals tiny mid-fit limbs to that MASSIVE voice of hers, as the boys flail about in spits and spats to the backdrop of her gracious ballerina sway. Phew.
Truth is, those not prepared may well scratch heads and whisper ‘what is this?’ for days later, and arguably that shows in an alarmingly low response from this crowd. Only dance-death closer ‘Party Wounds’ really clicking in big ways, causing a severe case of what can only be dubbed ‘mathematical headbanging’.
There feels the weight of a tidal wave as bodies surge forward to the beckoning white of Greg Puciato’s eyes. Storming on stage looking ready to kill, The Dillinger Escape Plan’s front man bellows opener ‘Farewell, Mona Lisa’ as the remaining four of this influential American five-piece tear normality to shreds in seconds. Known for injury-prone ‘no holds barred’ live shows, tonight is a definite box ticked on that front. Within minutes, Puciato is hanging from the Rescue Rooms balcony, stopmovingelsehe’llexplode guitarist Ben Weinman has ended up in the crowd and slightly calmer axeman Jeff Tuttle has only gone and ripped his trousers.
The frightening cohesion of such mess is a sight to behold, songs old and new flicker and flash with no real delays and for all the chugging mathmetal, sound levels are, well, impressively audible (!). There’s an undying scent of rebellious confusion that seeps from the sweaty bodies on and off stage, of not giving a damn, of finding a place to get a touch reckless and as ‘Mouth Of Ghosts’ provides a moving respite with a little piano, a little cleanly sung vocals, it’s fitting that minutes later in a chaotic finale’ Weinman is thrusting atop the venue’s bar and seemingly everything is crowdsurfed. (is that, a table? It is.)
So business as usual then? Dutifully. Just don’t let on that offstage, these guys are the sweetest ever. (Shh)
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