Melt Banana
Magnet,
Liverpool
Like being woken
up from dreamless stupor by a blueblooded 17-year old schoolgirl dominatrix
horsewhipping your cock with a car aerial, Melt Banana’s craft of cryogen
castigations and fearful force will raise sonic welts and let loose lurid
madness in a shockshank, redemptive moment. The utterly deranged quartet,
y’see, are absolutely and inviolably masters of their honest filth, and
inspiringly torpor-trashing when viewed at close and crazed quarters.
The Magnet – a
brilliant venue that combines the heavy-stereo décor of A Clockwork Orange with
heaven-sent misfit melodic-core conscience – is jammed, rammed, slammed with
dirty boys and sweaty girls in a pearly-skinned, sex-fried protoplasmic orgy,
genuflecting frantically in insane, spazzed-out and scuzzed-out unison to these
godbaiting priestprodders of fang-frenzied, gyroscopic sonic grime.
Spinning and
screaming, this is an erotic explosion, an evocative intrusion, a fretfuck
limbmash of hardcore chicanery that shoots shards of sheer sharkspite energy
atcha in a humbling harangue. And Rica is ineffably beautiful and unfairly,
majestically, technically, bassingly, brilliant, with moves reminiscent of a
pissed-off-but-grinning speedsniffing panther providing a classy and crashzoom
couterpoint to the sharpshapes of Yasuko O as she strips paint from the ceiling
with her voice and vitriolic vitality. The rapid fire ray-gun gonzo geetars and
devilbeaten drums command every fibre of my being to dance and shout and roar
with life. I’m not alone. I fuckin swear that The Magnet itself is slamdancing
down the street, forcing taxis off roads to ramraid kebab shops, scattering
half-cooked meat of dubious origin hither and thither.
Melt Banana are
an act that smash together some quite extrordinary musicianship with the
terrorscamp bloodscurry of pure dynamic control. It’s served them well over
four albums and a host of compilation releases – and on the eve of their fifth
LP proper, jaws drop and eyes pop at this most nefarious of bands. You ain’t
gonna get ballads with this lot – but you will fall in love with them. Fact.
Fucked. Final answer. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred Yen. My face
and my soul now bear some new, ballsy, beautiful scars, and the world will
forever echo with these tarnished tremors of power and poise. Perfection.
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