JUNGLE
Roadhouse, Manchester | October 10th
In an classic video interview, Werner Herzog described the Jungle as a cursed land, a place of growth, overwhelming fornication and collective murder. A place which time forgot; the birds, asphyxiated, howling in agony over a cursed and forgotten land. While we’re bummed not to have tasted Herzog’s jungle torture chamber, what we did manage to catch was the debut performance of the outrageously hyped band of that name, and damn, was it a blast.
If you’re unaware of the sonic palette on offer here, it’s a blend of neo-soul and throbbing, disco-scented grooves all wrapped up in harmonies that would make your grandma’s face melt into her Lonnie Donegan record. Launching into The Heat, all Herzog’s perceptions of the jungle were smashed. No curses or murder here, but a lavish kingdom of indulgence, extravagance and decadence, painting an image of a disco ball rotating in the canopy, wild hallucinatory tree top parties, undulating, and sex, lots of it. If Mowgli has been airdropped a crate of Chic records, some 70s MDMA and formed a band with the vultures, you’d be getting near.
For their first gig the band were outrageously polished, relaying the instruments through an orchestra of synths, drum pads and soul singers, turning the typically dark Roadhouse into a cathedral of technicolour sonic ecstasy. Platoon is one of the best singles of this year, and live all the intricacies of the recording come to the fore, breaking into weird synth loops and voodoo chants.
It’s seems inevitable that Jungle are going to be massive. Their sound is pop, sure, but when it’s put together in such an intriguing way and armed with as much weird and indefinable character, it’s a formula shared with Herzog’s jungle; a balance between chaos and total engrossment.
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Words: Alex Hal
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