Comanechi

If looks could kill… well, comprise the core of a commercial music career…

Comanechi are, on a Polaroid, a marketing man’s sexiest wet dream. One guy guitarist – tall, handsome, lightly stubbled, long locks, dirty riffs and a menacing stage presence – stands stage right of one girl drummer – small, oriental, luscious black hair, eyes to fall deeply in love with, killer attitude and give-a-fuck technique… this is the absolute anti-White Stripes to the brain of boardroom-bound men. But when they play, any plans for calculated commercial enterprise are blown disastrously towards the rock.

I’m not even sure what this is – it’s scuzzy around the edges, primitive and raw throughout, yet the beats are boisterous and the long-digit-ed hand playing miniature twister across six razor-sharp strings is making these feet tap and this head nod so violently that its adjoining neck is suffering borderline whiplash. The vocals are cracked and incomplete – simple shouts and splutterings up close and personal with a microphone that ends the set discarded behind the drumkit, but another victim to the savage chaos on stage. It _is_ the aforementioned Whites, albeit if they'd been fed a steady diet of Huggy Bear, Mudhoney and SST punk. It invites you up there to become part of the melee, but the feet remain at a safe, three-foot distance from the riot. Best not to incite it further, or else nobody will leave this place unscarred.

You can see it now…

“Yeah… Smith? Get me those Comanechi guys. Yeah, the ones with their own sign. What’s that? Too noisy? We’ll fix that. What? They say no? Tell ‘em from me that I will personally make it worth their while… Hello Smith? Smith you’re breaking up… Smith?”

So no, looks can’t kill, but if given the opportunity you sense that Comanechi most certainly would. Fuck the career…