DEATH PEDALS/ RAD PITT- The Blue Moon, Cambridge 15.7.16

It’s been a long time since I last reviewed anything and a lot has changed. I have a dog. My husband comes for a walk with me and my dog and spends his entire time bumping into lamp posts trying to ‘catch’ some weird bloody pretend creature that appears tweeting at our feet. I blame Brexit for turning him into a knob. He didn’t vote to ‘leave’ but I have to say that the state of our country is probably responsible for most things gone bad. And it’s made people really angry. Apart from me. I am now at a stage of unshakeable apathy and this has, I’m sorry to say, apparently extended to my one-time obsession with the music scene. There are few new bands now that stir my hollow soul.

So when said husband suggested we go and see a gig of a Friday night because he liked the headliner’s name, I mostly went along because there was the promise of cider.

Doing a bit of background research into what my ears were going to experience, Colchester’s Rad Pitt lasted a couple of seconds before I started weeping in despair. And then I heard them live. Away from the poorly produced recordings you can hear online, what we actually are face-to-face with is five blokes for whom is no other existence but to play rock and roll. God only knows what the hell the singer is saying because a) the sound in this tiny room is crap and b) his throat has been vaporised by a hit of a thousand metal demons, but the sheer passion and energy that Rad Pitt exude is an intoxicating combination. That number of time-signature changes in twenty minutes or so should be banned but they do it cleverly, in a way that other bands that they used to be in (such as The Jorneta Stream) didn’t have the same impact (at least, that’s what I thought). The drummer is jaw-droppingly good, backing up some very tight tunes and the singer has a beard and tattoos so gets my vote as he paces around the floor. We both agree we would watch them again, which is a real compliment if you take into account what I wrote in the first paragraph about the suburban Pokemon mania, so play another local gig soon please. Oh, and get some decent recordings done? I feel awake again. Thank you.


Then on come poor little Death Pedals who play for half an hour as if they know how stale they sound in comparison to their support act. This was actually the band that got us out of the house in the first place, with a comparison to my dearhearts, The Bronx, but it turned out that this is the band that led us back to the feeling of frustration and disappointment. The wall of sound might be pissing them off perhaps. Maybe they can’t hear what they are playing but one thing is apparent- they don’t seem to give a shit what they are doing here. As they make their way through their set, the charisma-o-meter sinks to minus twenty. You’re playing punk rock, for Christ’s sake. Break something. Cause a little chaos. You don’t need to spit or anything- just prove you’re not just a robot playing a guitar. Could it be that they have been in East London too long and once they cross the M25, a little part of their soul dies? Well, part of my soul died watching them. I’m sorry. You sounded great on SoundCloud but, tonight, you sucked so much I can’t even be bothered to write about it. Now back to Dalston with you. Good morrow.

Anna C

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