Nine bands, seven hours, one tiny East London pub. The stats have all the makings of a glorious, sweat-drenched summer Saturday afternoon; and when you throw in the fact that it's The Shacklewell Arms that's playing host, arguably Dalston's finest indie watering hole, well, you've got yourself a recipe for unbridled triumph there, Toto. Before we begin though, it's confession time. Due to an utterly unforgivable bout of tardiness, itself the result of a spectacular failure to accept the shrill whine of my phone's so-called 'alarm', I manage to miss The Wharves and Three Ah's' opening sets entirely, finally meandering into the Shacklewell at the precise moment that No Ditching play their last note. Frankly, it's bloody foolish behaviour because all three bands, on record at least, are really rather spiffing. Oh, and to top it off, No Ditching are the proud creators of possibly the single best T-shirt in existence right now (animals on top of animals!) so they definitely deserve your attention. Head on over to their Bandcamp this instant and buy their fantastically scrappy 'Face Ache' EP, the highlight of which is a bona fide jangle-pop classic called 'I Should Read In Bed, I Watch GG Instead'. You won't be disappointed.
Anyhow... Flowers' particular brand of shoegazey dream-pop is an interesting contrast to what has (presumably) come before. The juxtaposition between Sam's aggressive guitar chops and singer Rachel's gentle, melancholic vocals proves captivating. Their audience grows and grows with each passing track until, by the achingly beautiful bass-and-vocal only closer, the room is full and standing. Rachel quite simply commands your attention and the ovation that greets the final moments is resolute proof. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of The Proper Ornaments; they're fine, make no mistake, but for whatever reason, tonight, they don't particularly stand out. Perhaps it's the pressure of following something so evidently accomplished. Maybe they just weren't feeling all that great. The set is passable enough, but at times, the band's brand of lo-fi shoegaze just seems a bit lost and meandering; it never quite seems to click.
It's all fine and dandy though because Martha are here to save the day with singalongs, shiny hooks and birthday cake. Yes, it's guitarist Daniel's, um, twentysomethingth and halfway through their blistering set, he is presented with said delectable by members of the audience... and, after blowing out the candles and finishing the show, it is promptly shared with the rest of the Shacklewell. It's a nice moment and one that acts as the proverbial (or even literal, perhaps) icing on their thrill-filled thirty minutes. For the most part, this is a lesson in the genius of Courting Strong, the band's current record. There's the deliciously wistful Cosmic Misery; the disquieting yet jaunty Dust, Juice, Bones and Hair, which elicits a genuinely moving bout of audience participation, prompting a clearly stoked Jc to thank everyone; and, of course, there's that dynamic duo - first, Naomi's 1997 - Passing in the Hallway, the best song ever to reference Year 11, and later, its ridiculously brilliant counterpart 1967 - I Miss You, I'm Lonely which is so irresistible, you just want to crawl inside its effortless melodies and guitar solos and never leave. There's time for a few golden oldies too - a rollicking Sycamore and classic closer 1978, Smiling Politely - but they really are the sprinkles atop Martha's cake; right now, they're absolutely at the top of their game and if they keep writing songs as good as these, and playing shows as exciting, goodness knows where they might be in a year's time.
Like the Flowers conundrum earlier, the prospect of following a set as strong as Martha's might unnerve some; fortunately, we've got intrepid indie-pop stalwarts The Spook School to hand and if there are any such concerns among the Edinburgh/London four piece, they keep them well suppressed. Tonight, the Spooks are as confident, dynamic and downright thrilling to watch as they have ever been. As is customary, guitarist Adam Todd leaps around the all-too-tiny stage with reckless abandon, making a wonderful racket, caring not for his personal safety (and occasionally that of his fellow band mates) while drummer Niall fills between-song tune-ups with awkward, dysfunctional comedy, telling a boy in the front row that he was in his wet dreams last night, along with his own mother. Amongst this abject lunacy, lead singer Nye Todd and bassist Anna Cory deftly hold things together, propelling the Dress Up-heavy set forward and, hilariously, cutting Niall off when things get a little too uncomfortable. Don't be fooled, though; for all the comedy around the edges, it's the songs themselves that are the highlight of the set and this is certainly a team effort. Their debut's finest are all served up (sans Matt Damon, sadly, but they're forgiven), with I'll Be Honest, Are You Who You Think You Are? and The Cameraman eliciting bouts of pogoing and emboldened singalongs from the adoring, slightly tipsy crowd.
And then there's Something, the little 1 minute 56 second ballad nestled in the middle of the album (and the set) that is quite probably the most accomplished thing they've ever recorded... and tonight, it's certainly the most beautiful. "I've been introducing this song by saying it's about being transgender," begins Nye, "but actually, most of my songs are about being transgender." There really should be no underplaying the power of a statement like this; all too often, issues relating to gender, sex and sexuality are obfuscated in music, buried beneath metaphor and simile or absent altogether. Talking about it is radical, it's cathartic and above all, it's bloody brave (we can discuss whether it should be any of those things another time). To see a band, an indie pop band no less, proclaiming "fuck the gender boundary" and singing songs like Binary, which openly discuss queer issues, just feels fucking heartwarming. It helps that their two new, similarly-themed efforts are top drawer pop songs too, probably the finest in their ever-burgeoning arsenal ('I am bigger than a hexadecimal' is your new slogan... we trust you bought the T-shirt?) And then, just to make the evening a trillion times more joyous, they invite members of Martha and Joanna Gruesome onstage for an impromptu cover of Taylor Swift's You Belong to Me. Because they can. And it's perfect.
Oh, wait, did someone say 'perfect'? Well, as it happens, there's some extra special guests on the bill and apparently, they're just that... oh, okay, I'll stop now. World's worst segway. Actually, there isn't all that much to say about Perfect Pussy. Their set is brash, abrasive, difficult and confrontational (sonically, at least) and in that sense, it should be brilliant. Alas, something gets lost in translation; it feels like it's the sound, as if it's all too muddy, but one swift look at the guy behind the mixing desk reveals that he's feeling as frustrated and helpless as the rest of us. Maybe the Shacklewell just doesn't have the capability to handle this band. Or maybe I just missed out by standing at the back. Whatever the reason, there's a palatable sense of disappointment in the room which is a shame because, evidently, Perfect Pussy give us their all, no question.
Headliners Joanna Gruesome, on the other hand, play an absolute blinder. Months and months and months on the road has done wonders for these guys; while they've managed to retain the scrappiness that previously made them such a joy to watch, they've also somehow become a tighter and, if possible, louder collective unit. The guitars are crunchier, the bass more wicked, Dave's drumming about as powerful as it can possibly be without destroying 26 skins and Alanna's vocals and delivery just ooze confidence. Joanna Gruesome demand your attention and when the songs kick in, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. And that's all the songs... the new ones too. This is a band honing their craft, comfortable in their ability to command both stage and audience. They almost don't need Perfect Pussy's Meredith Graves to guest thrash on closer Sugarcrush but it's brilliant all the same; a messy, abrasive crescendo of noise to round off the day. And then The Time Warp drops. The instruments are abandoned. Joanna Gruesome and Perfect Pussy do the routines onstage. For the full four minutes. It's bonkers, it's hilarious and above all, it's oodles of fun. And really, there's no better way to sum up Shake the Shacklewell II. That'll do, guys. That'll do.
(It's just a jump to the left...)
