Wolf Eyes

21.24

The 91 bus rolls to its resting place at the Trafalgar Square end of The Strand; the ICA, tonight’s venue for rockin’ (um, or not), lies beyond the opposite arch. All around, tourists bustle, albeit quietly, under the fading light of an early summer evening. The sky is a million colours at once. The fountains look as pretty as they do on so many postcards. The lions sleep. For once, the centre of London seems absolutely serene.

21.34

A quick encounter with an old acquaintance and it’s through the doors and into the whatthefuckisthis? of Fe-Mail. The screeching, hissing, spitting sound… it’s like a thousand Pentium processors being forced with pokers into a shredder. The two ladies on stage wear ties and smiles; the ‘music’ detonating around the insides of this sweaty black cube would drive any suspected terrorist to dish the dirt down in Guantanamo, regardless of their guilt. People are actually putting their fingers in their ears; to the right, a gentleman sporting a large beard is stroking his chin furiously.

21.35

Fuck, I think my eardrum just popped. Just one mind. No worry.

21.37

My girlfriend says that she thinks her ears are bleeding. They’re not, but we seek shelter in the bar nevertheless. Never has “an acquired taste” been a more appropriate summarisation. Fizzy brown stuff in hand, we spy the purveyors of the above-described horrorcore. They look as innocent as new-born lambs. The sick fucks.

22.00

A joke. No, really – Wolf Eyes are trying to tell a joke. I don’t know why, but it a wastes a good ten minutes of stage time and b I’ve heard it before. For those interested, it’s the punk and the parrot ‘gag’, as heard on Family Guy. Nate Young is laughing at the calls to “Get on with it.” Then…

22.08

They do and it fucking burns. For thirty minutes.

22.38

Wow, silence. Over the last half-hour I have wondered whether there’s enough bread at home for my sandwiches, nearly lost what remains of my eyesight through over exposure to strobe effects, and feared that I might shit my guts out all over the floor through a combination of searing fucking agony and unprecedented aural-born fear. The trio on stage cackle and curse – fuck this, fuck that, this is fucking shit, that is fucking shat – and slink away into the shadows stage right.

22.44

They’re back. Young – the core of this band of beastly sonic brutes having 'formed' Wolf Eyes back in 199something – says that the next one is both old and shit. It sounds like what’s come before:

Driiiii!!!!!NNNNNgggGGGG!!

end__

22.56

Back in the cold(er) serenity once more, the brain’s scrambled state freezes into a shapeless mess of muddled ideas and did-I-get-that? self-accusations.

22.56.34

No, not really.