VENETIAN SNARES

The Fleece, Bristol | September 25th

Over the last fifteen years Venetian Snares has been one of the standout producers under the broad definition of breakcore, twisting melons and confounding expectations of what music can be. To some it’s just too much; an aural assault that rapes the brain. To others, he is the master of the brain raping aural assault, up there with the likes of Aphex Twin and Squarepusher in pushing beyond boundaries into dimension unknown. At the Fleece tonight, ‘the others’ have assembled in honour of all things fucked up and twisted.

It feels a little strange to be here on a Tuesday evening, as this is music which normally finds its home at freaky warehouse parties and late night cellar clubs. As Aaron Funk takes the stage and begins tweaking the mixer in front of him, sound immediately becomes his plaything. He strangles and stabs the melodies, wringing the sonic onslaught dry of extraneous parts. The drums beat us around the head swiftly, draining the mind of the world of crap we’re often fed. What’s replaced is extraordinary. His unique deftness at production and arrangements embraces the venue in a whirlwind of broken beats and acid bass.

Raving never felt so modern. As vintage as a lot of the sounds are, they are dealt with precision and focus which crosses into sheer madness. Jungle vibes infuse the rhythms, taking the crowd deeper and lower than we thought possible. The splattering of vocal samples hark back to the rave days and keep us smiling at how someone can pull off such a feat of unadulterated fun whilst squeezing your balls tighter and tighter.

Tracks off last album My So Called Life are present, as well other massive tunes from the back catalogue, but in truth it all melds into one beautiful cacophony. The pure indulgence and filth drenches the crowd until we are left weak-kneed and bloodied. Minds have been melted and expectations thoroughly exceeded. To see Venetian Snares in full flight it to see a master at work.

– – – – – – – – –

Words: Philip Allen