Part Chimp

There’s an icy chill on the breeze, born of the actions of mischievous children (and those old enough to know better) scampering about Hoxton alleyways and backstreets. Upon meeting the better half in a convenient pre-show boozer, I’m told of her encounter with such a midget crony: “Gimme more than that or my 28-year-old mates will break your nose,” said the ten-year-old trick or treater, apparently. I’m unmoved, but still: something evil’s afoot.

A couple of hours later and Comanechi guitar slinger Simon wobbles on stage at Cargo carrying a cross, his face flecked with fake blood and his standard jeans replaced by white smock and flashes of naked flesh. “Me? I’m Jesus,” he says post-set; on it, he’s closer to the other one, such is his devilish riffing. Akiko, some sort of zombie for the night, pounds and whines, but it’s her bandmate that – for once – steals much of the attention. The music is as brutally one-dimensional as always, but sounds somewhat fluffy in these larger-than-usual surroundings – the grit and dirt of the duo’s usual performance is dented both by the unforgiving acoustics (although volume near enough corrects any personal imperfections) and the screening of The Evil Dead above them. Eyes wander from Jesus to Ash and his demonic mates and back again, but rarely does Comanechi's party-time bombast make a substantial impact.

Perhaps, though, such feelings of indifference stem from comparison with the forever on-fire Bullet Union. Some 100 gigs in just one year - an amazing feat for a part-time band - has ensured that the London quartet are tighter than your dad’s wallet when you want booze money, and their ferocity soon has those previously straying eyes focused firmly on the sweaty torsos flailing this way and that. (A brush against vocalist Jodie a little later confirms the saturated nature of on-stage shirts; it is, appropriately, frighteningly hot in here this evening.) Some new songs would be welcomed right now, but the band’s rise from bit-part players keen to support everyone and anyone to one of the capital’s – okay, the country’s – finest punk outfits has been a wonder to witness over these past 12 months.

Chances are that if you’ve purposefully clicked your way to this review then you’ve some semblance of an idea as to what a Part Chimp show entails. Some shouting, some screams, some sweating, but most of all: amplification at an excessive level. This is nothing new; what is, though, is the band’s set list, which draws heavily upon this year's I Am Come record rather than their much-acclaimed Chart Pimp debut. Sure, the songs aren’t particularly new to those who’ve gladly deafened themselves more frequently than I, but those that’ve missed the Part Chimp party of late are treated to sounds that are super fresh but not so clean. ‘New Cross’ has speaker cones convulsing into blunderbusses, their eruptions tearing at our ears with an epic force; ‘Bring Back The Sound’ might be the standard singalong in the Chimp songbook but it can still collapse a lung from fifty yards; and ‘War Machine’ is, well, as perfect as its title implies. It’s the kind of music that would warm the cockles rather than shatter them, if it weren’t for the now trademark volume.

Call them a one-trick pony of you will, but I won’t be there to back you up when their mates come by and break your nose. Toffee apples, too, are a considerably more difficult proposition when you’ve no front teeth to speak of…