Creepy Morons / The Rebel / Gindrinker:
Cardiff Clwb Ifor Bach, 14/09/07

It isn't often that I'm stuck for an opinion. Sometimes I fall head-over-heels in love with bands. Sometimes I hate them with a fiery passion. More often than not, I'm bored shitless by them. Gindrinker, however, have succeeded in confusing the fucking hell out of me, and they probably deserve to be congratulated for that if nothing else. Their name appears on Clwb posters fairly frequently, which probably explains why most of the crowd don't seem as bewildered as I am - in fact, they're getting a pretty enthusiastic reception - but it's still difficult to know what to make of this. The music's shambling and discordant, in the main, but it's punctuated by outbursts of sheer, stuttering anger, howls of cornet (not to be confused with the howls of "they're shiiiiiit!" coming from the unfortunate dragged-along boyfriend) and freeform vocal rants that could be the stream-of-consciousness utterances of a 21st century Mark E Smith, but could just as easily be the ramblings of that drunken old bloke at the bus stop who smells of wee (and honestly, who can tell the difference anyway?) I really can't decide what I think about this lot, so go and find out for yourselves.

Despite sitting and trying to pay attention through the whole of The Rebel's set, the only part that sticks in my memory is the two minutes or so near the end where they broke into a kind of manic haunted house music. That bit was pretty enjoyable. The rest of it was lo-fi, or something. It was hard to care.

I've been impressed by Creepy Morons' scabrous racket before, and tonight was no exception. They're noisier than any two-piece has a right to be and tighter than Gordon Brown's purse-strings, playing with the kind of telepathic intensity that suggests either obsessive practice or a long history of playing in bands together. But it's not about skill or musicianship (pukepukepuke), oh no. With these two, everything else is sublimated into furious energy and great, crashing, deafening walls of NOISE. Drums clatter, feedback shreds the air, guitars squall and struggle and you can hardly make out the vocals but it doesn't matter what they're singing about anyway, because this band's drive and passion - and the fact they're fucking loving every minute of it - is so blindingly obvious it makes you want to bounce around grinning like an idiot and dancing like a twat. After the impenetrable fumblings of the early half of the gig, it's a blessed relief. Go check them out. If you're disappointed, you're probably deaf.

Jess Trash


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