Crack

By and large, since the early nineties, Israel has been a big exporter of full-on, swirling, acid- stewed psy-trance. Crusty parties worldwide go bonkers for electro acts like Infected Mushroom, who aggressively fuse throbbing bass and druggy synth chops, chucking in pokey doses of thrash metal to awesome hallucinatory effect.

More recently, however, Israel has been put on the map for an entirely different approach to party starting. Over the past five years, dance floors have throbbed to a sound that is as relentlessly energetic as psy-trance, but much more fun, earthy and, above all, funky. Nine-piece jazzers The Apples, who hail from Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Haifa – and the Ukraine – have been dropped in clubs from Turkey to America and continually smash festivals everywhere they go. They're unashamedly function band material, but it's hard not to be impressed by their tightly woven grooves.

The Fleece, typically host to indie, alternative and metal outfits, seems an odd stage for a troupe of fiery improvisers, a band more likely to appear at Montreux Jazz festival over Reading festival. Nevertheless, The Apples get down to it and even turn out a floor-shaking cover of Rage Against The Machine’s Killing In The Name - riffs and solos are transplanted with screeching brass and beats that pummel harder than the original - which is so forceful that bassist Alon Carmelly busts his upright. The crowds are swept into a mosh, screaming the immortally defiant line: “Fuck you I won't do what you tell me.”

Speaking of crowd participation, it wouldn't be a proper party without a large dollop of call-response audience participation, and Halevy spurs on a chanting volley of ooohs and aaaahs to a number described as “the closest thing we have to a football song”.

They romp through a set that combines Middle-Eastern melodies, big band swing, hip-hop snappiness and a John Bonham-esque flair for drum punishment. For all intents and purposes, Halevy leads the band front of stage, commanding and conducting with his loose but hard-hitting stick delivery.

Despite claims that 'there'll only be two breathers during this set,' the hour-long explosion of sheer funk barely relents. Posing a problem, a problem many outfits of this nature face: sublety falls by the wayside, resulting in a poverty of dynamic distinction between tunes. Nevertheless, what they lack in song craft, they make up for in their rambunctious, oddball attack.

For their encore, the brass section get amongst the crowd and blow a mariachi-like soundtrack to a funeral procession. We push to the front, wondering what in hell's going on, before breaking into another full-throttle breakneck number.



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Words: Jamie Skey

http://www.myspace.com/theapplesmusic

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