Crack

Crack arrives at the Arnolfini with the slight concern that the usual standards for going out on Saturday might not be met by hanging around in an art gallery. But once the music starts we quickly realise we’re at the most enthralling event in town.

Due to the distant and muffled sound of Hype Williams’s music, there’s a risk it might not translate in a live setting. In such a huge space, the delicacy of their sound might seem limp, and if the sound levels aren’t carefully mixed, the subversive elements of their music could be buried. The whole thing might easily lose its charm. Thankfully, both the lighting and the sound quality at the Arnolfini are excellent, and Hype Williams deliver a full frontal assault on the senses. Strobe lights flash continuously throughout the set and there’s also the unsettling presence of a chunky, oiled-up body builder on stage. The band progressively boost the volume to ear-punishing levels, and the music sounds all the more euphoric when it’s reverberating through the crowd.

Next up is Anika, an artist who intrigued Portishead’s Geoff Barrow so much that he ended up producing her self-titled debut, as well as lending her musicians from his side-project Beak> for recording duties. On stage, she’s sulky eyed under the spotlight, gazing at nothing in particular and singing in a low, half-bored yet strenuous voice
reminiscent of both Nico and Ari Up of The Slits. Some of the songs, like single Yang Yang, have a bouncy pace and catchy, almost infantile melodies. But key to Anika’s sound is the contrast achieved by playing in an icy style with a post-punk sensibility, each song centred around the heavy wobble of a dub bassline, her band energetically
shredding guitars and hammering keys.

For whatever reason, some members the crowd are inattentive. The noise of their conversations is disproportionally loud compared to the applause between songs. This obviously frustrates the band, and at one point a band member flips out: “If you want to have a fucking chat, there’s a fucking bar next door!”, he yells. Maybe it’s an admirable confrontation with a static audience, or maybe it’s just a failure to accept the music doesn’t quite resonate with some individuals. Either way, you can’t accuse Anika and her band of being languid.

Factory Floor’s live show isn’t hard work. To enjoy it you don’t have to be politely attentive, it does not test the endurance of your patience. Yes, it’s experimental, boundary-pushing and even slightly indulgent, but it’s so exhilaratingly thunderous and insistently rhythmic that it’s impossible to not be completely transfixed. Under the glow of patterned, minimalistic visuals, Factory Floor build up a relentless industrial techno pulse which is morphed and tweaked progressively. The band chant repetitive mantras into the mics, Nik’s guitar is channelled through such a toxic set up that each time she whips the strings with a drumstick, a metallic burst of distortion hisses from the speakers. The engine of the music is Gabriel’s drumming. At points the percussion grinds to a halt, allowing Nik and Dominic to twist the pulse to a new tempo, then it’s up to Gabriel to find the beat. Sometimes it takes a while, there’s the feeling that this could all fall apart, a total meltdown could occur.

But he finds his way in, slapping the odd snare, stamping on the bass drum, finding the rhythm then - bang - he’s locked in. It’s a carefully considered racket, tailored specifically to make individuals lose their shit.



- - - - - - - - - -

Words: David Reed

http://www.myspace.com/anikainvada

http://www.myspace.com/factoryfloor

http://www.myspace.com/hypheewilliams

- - - - - - - - - - -