Mirror! Mirror!

A rainy night in Soho indeed; my brogues dissolved upon my feet long before Mirror! Mirror!’s canned heat could dry them out. Hopefully they’ve been dancing to their own unfeasibly jerky beat long before it came into fashion; if they have, good luck to ‘em, the young punks. Enough of the cowbells though lads, you seem too clever for all that. Next up, X-Ray Eyes were gothic try-hards, nothing more than suspenders and contrived perma-scowls. However, they probably eat indie kids like me for breakfast. For this alone they should be commended.

Within seconds of The Violets’ opener frontwoman Alex has already alienated half the in-crowd, leering over them half squat on the stage’s edge. She doesn’t have to open her mouth for poetry to pour from her panda eyes, nor move to command the stage. Inevitable comparison = Patti Smith. She’s a star, but it’s the earthshaking power of her band’s playing that makes this all work.

Whilst other bands choose to revel in pentatonic wankery, The Violets use their obvious musical talents for rock and roll, rather than against it. The only two instruments, guitar and drums, are played with stripped-down ferocity, they’re earthshakingly powerful and equally spatial by turns. Guitarist Joe is Keith Levene meets Kraftwerk. On ‘Descend’, built around feedback and shards of melody, he’s the first guitarist I’ve seen to break the final taboo: making your guitar sound like a laptop. Although he lurks stage right, he is central to The Violets’ show; it’s the dynamic between him and Alex that allows her Dali-has-a-daydream visions to succeed.

So what could seem pretentious simply becomes poised: half the stage is destroying whilst the other is resurrecting, in perfect unity. When Alex works against their rhythm The Violets are disturbing, violent art-punk; when she chooses to play along they’re soothing and melodic. They’d be a faded black-and-white photograph of yesterday’s glories, strung out on their own sleepy nostalgia if they weren’t so ALIVE onstage. Instead they’re punk fantasists playing for a different world, whilst most other bands write about puking up bent double on a street corner.