Kling Klang

It’s generally accepted within Manchester at the moment that if you want to see a band who have no qualms about confronting you with hacksaw searing tunes while making you want to dance, then Stranger Son of WB (pictured) are the ones to do it. Having changed their rhythm section this year, each member now functions as an equal quarter of the same vile monster.

Beginning with the languid, sinister jazz of 'Rone’s Dream Hammer', statuesque frontman Gareth Smith circles around the same spot, yelling until a clear roadmap of major arteries bulges on his forehead. Inches away, guitarist Tim Horrocks hops around with his telecaster, creating a whirlwind of sound jagged enough for the audience to start mirroring his compulsive shuffling. Smith wrestles to pick up a keyboard off the floor as though it’s one of the ‘pigeon fanciers’ or ‘social vandals’ he directs his lyrical bile at. Where 'Bidding For Kidneys' sees kinetic drummer Andrew Cheetham chasing his sticks around the kit, bassist Zac Haynes remains workman-like, trotting out throbbing chunks of noise with his back to the audience.

It’s frantic, politicised vitriol, brimming on the edge of chaos, but never losing direction. By the time Horrocks drops his guitar and hits one-handed notes on the keyboard for the hook-driven, menace-soaked 'Meter Man', there’s a common realisation that although they sound like a train derailing on the ley lines of your mind, there’s nothing to do but dance.

Kling Klang have their work cut out for them. Not only because a home audience has taken Stranger Son to their hearts, but for leader Joe McLaughlin, their myriad of analogue synths, monosynths, polysynths and various other complicated contraptions are a nightmare to soundcheck.

Their debut album, which effectively charts seven years of making their kraut-punk sound, is a clean, mechanical creation. Live, the expectation is that they won’t be able to reproduce such precision or even deliver something extra to command the audience’s attention.

Fortunately, once they begin, technical difficulties are absent, leaving the five-piece to create hypnotic, dense walls of sound that actually, at times, replicate the effect of having four guitars in the room. With no vocals, McLaughlin and drummer Ali MacDonald are the focal point for their sheer intense concentration. Twitching with each twist of button or occasional strike of his guitar, McLaughlin channels the sounds through his facial expressions. The slow-fast-slow high-pitched charge of 'Vander' leans towards some sort of '70s sci-fi nightmare but it’s excursions such as 'Heavydale' that sounds like Damo Suzuki whipping Jimmy Page with a cattle prod that makes the arduous preparation all worthwhile.