WOODEN SHJIPS
Scala, London | December 10th
“There’s far too many young people here”, grumbles a tidy-haired fogey as Crack enters Scala for what will turn out to be the most intensely psychedelic experience of the year.
He’d seen Can once in Berlin in the ‘70s, probably, and was still trying to reclaim those moments of youthful experimentation that had succeeded in his parents banning him from listening to dangerous musicians like Neil Young. And now he was here, having arrived straight from a long day working as a financial accountant for Credit Suisse, trying to claim some kind of ownership over the wild, droning sounds of San Franciscans Wooden Shjips. The prick. We went along because we smoked too much weed as teenagers and have since learnt to find solace in the sensory lambastes of Californian space-jams.
Our narrow-minded friend made a good point though. The crowd for Wooden Shjips was pretty damn weird. Before us stood a middle-aged man who had taken far too much acid and stood grinning as his thousand-yard stare sucked all humanity out of every individual in his vicinity. Other sections of the crowd violently erupted into fevered dance with the energy of a drunken gang of youths at Download Festival, successfully highlighting the intoxicating rhythmic power of the band’s kraut-infested jigs. And the testosterone-fuelled head-banging of every other member of the audience was enough to dispel most women from attending the event – but those who did were no less tantalised than their ageing male counterparts.
The Wooden Shjips show, moreover, was modestly outrageous. Without flamboyance or even much in the way of performance, each member truly commanded our attention. At the drums, Omar Ahsanuddin flailed at his mini-kit like King Khan’s well-behaved younger brother. Dusty Jermier freaked out on the bass like the archetypal lunatic professor at work on his latest abominable creation, whilst Nash Whalen stood gormless over his keys, tongue hanging out, as if he’d just been returned from his latest abduction. And then there’s Ripley Johnson, with his Charles Manson beard and effortless cool – if Jesus had taken drugs then this is what he’d look like we thought, as he wigged out the guitars all over that entranced audience.
With a light-show that spun colours like a rainbow in a hurricane, the band soared through a set of repetitive riffs and unflinchingly hypnotic solos, with barely a chord change in sight for the whole 90 minutes. Black Smoke Rise descended like the curse of Satan, Motorbike roared like an engine, Fallin’ shook like a caffeine-laced tambourine, and Other Stars galloped like the steeds of the Four Horsemen. This was a show that left no soul untouched, and as the band left the stage the snap back to reality was as stirring as the performance itself. This was one striking encounter, and truly a trip like no other.
– – – – – – – – – –
Words: James Balmont
CONNECT TO CRACK
