FAT WHITE FAMILY
The Lexington, London | March 27th
This band’s very presence is distressing.
Crack has seen enough bands who take pride in controversy – we’ve become completely desensitised to the puke, shit and claret that can be found in every performance this side of punk – but Fat White Family actually appear to be in a lot of trouble both physically and mentally. There’s no real performance to speak of other than a general struggle of intoxicated internal communication amidst clattering instruments and semi-intelligible groans, they just radiate filth. They look genuinely horrible, and if their music wasn’t so impressive you’d really be hoping that somebody might take them aside after the show and ask if they really thought what they were doing with their lives was a good idea.
It’s therefore remarkable that they manage to hold it all together for such a long time. Most impressive of all is the drummer, as tight as a metronome despite frequent lapses in focus, made recurrently evident when his gaze spills out across the crowd and awkwardly locks in with that of an audience member. This is no pose-y death stare, he genuinely looks like he’s about to enter a permanent vegetative state, and as such it would be a reasonable suggestion to halt the gig at this point so that the euthanasia debate can be re-opened. Other individuals of note include a crooked-toothed guitarist and a singer whose hair has apparently been liquefied by the volume of grease that has built up around it. The other three members, meanwhile, appear invariably distressed, unwashed, and inebriated.
We could continue to express our unrelenting fascination with these most unsanitary of characters, but it would be an injustice to do so without addressing the brilliant songs that they play. Their unsavoury ‘image’ undoubtedly contributed to their recent win of the Cult Star Award at the recent BBC 6Music Blog Awards – they’d only released one song ahead of their Champagne Holocaust album release – but to say that this mess are without depth would be false. They may have formerly been The Metros, but they aren’t The Others.
The music occupies a noisy, treble-y space somewhere in between dirty 60s garage and the grottier side of the Black Lips; a manure-infested version of ‘flower punk’ that ultimately ends up more as a kind of sewage blues. A long set is full of wailing sludge riffs, screeching vocals, and dank, thumping rhythms, but it’s also broken up by gems like the hypnotic Eastern mantra of Cream of the Young and a country-inspired track featuring the surprisingly competent integration of a slide guitar. Their sound is ultimately a perfect reflection of their shame: it’s dirty, nasty, and would be a whole lot prettier if they gave it a good wash, but it is without a doubt the product of the minds of some hugely intelligent individuals. You might not have heard of Fat White Family before reading this, but we can assure you they aren’t the kind of act you’ll forget quickly.
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Words: James Balmont
Photo: Lou Smith
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