Ex-Models

"If you bought this single then you're a retard," proclaims Sam, one of Test Icicles' trio of painfully cool guitar-wielding mirth-merchants. He is, of course refering to their recent Domino-released effort 'Boa vs. Python', tonight executed with the kind of half-hearted yet endlessly enjoyable prowess that defines Test Icicles - placing them above their 'scenester' status and even above their own chucklesome moniker.

Chucklesome is something that is quite easy to associate with a band who are, by their own admission, a joke out of control. On stage, singer/guitarist/keyboardist/metal-fiend Dev encourages people to visit his friend's Myspace page and apologises to anyone that paid money come to the show, all whilst wearing a WWF vest-top. The real point at hand though is that Test Icicles are just so much fun. Looking around the Garage, people are smiling, dancing and soaking up the shambolic mess of a disco. We really did come to party and it's impossible not to do so when the show is this engaging. The scene is beginning to realise that entertainment can be just as pleasurable as Doherty - Test Icicles could well be turning the tide.

While the above sentiments do indeed resonate within the beer-soaked minds of the two-hundred-odd folk in tonight, Ex-Models split opinion as easily as they do front-of-stage skulls with incessant and surprisingly monstrous motorik guitar grooves. The absolute lack of a physical rhythm section to complement Messrs Shahin and Zach’s fret-mangling finger work only adds to the sensory overload, and such is the advancement of hostility from stage to strength-sapped punters (who only minutes ago were moshing to the aforementioned ‘Icicles) that a slew depart early.

Sadly, this DiSser must too, as a cat-related incident plays out some miles north chez Diver. Still, one's jaw requires retrieval from the butt-strewn and booze-sodden floor prior to departure nonetheless, for however violent Ex-Models become in their evolution, never once have they failed to make an impression. Call their haphazard quasi-hardcore 'shit', if you will; add a 'the' and you’re nearer the purely masochistic truth.

Test Icicles by Colin Roberts; Ex-Models by Michael Diver. Photos by Sonia Melot.