Psychedelic Horseshit and Pink ReasonEdit this event
Twenty-six years old and originally hailing from Green Bay, Wisconsin, a place usually more famous for having an American Football team named the Packers, Kevin Debroux, AKA the usually one-man show known as Pink Reason, is visibly enraptured with the raw, gritty essence of rock ’n’ roll and he lets the audience at Bardens know it tonight: whether they like it or not. Performing on stage with nothing more than a battered electric and support from **Psychedelic Horseshit’s drummer, Debroux positions himself into the role of a mid-western blue collar Ian Curtis weaned on a steady diet of US hardcore and obscure Russian rock (no, seriously), as he performs songs from last year’s excellent_ Cleaning the Mirror_. Playing more for himself than any kind of adulation from the audience, the resulting lo-fi, often melancholic noise taps into an uncompromising spirit free of the trappings of any constricting scene or zeitgeist approved sound. For those who feel like that’s something which has been lacking of late on these shores, do yourself a favour and seek out Pink Reason.
Take a look at their MySpace and you’ll find Psychedelic Horseshit describing their music as “trashcans fucking on cheap speed”. A ramshackle trio from Columbus, Ohio with Pink Reason’s Debroux on bass, the group have been described of late as the little brother band of Times New Viking (a la The Stooges and MC5 back in the day). It’s an apt comparison. Where Times New Viking channel Guided By Voices-style pop hooks into their lo-fi aesthetic, Psychedelic Horseshit give us something of a far more bratty, delinquent variety. A bit drunk, a bit loud and definitely out to stir things up as they struggle through sound problems, the band sound at times like they’re doing their best to alienate the audience on moments like the nu-folk critiquing, weird America-bashing ‘New Wave Hippie’. Still, for every missed note or the band complaining to the audience that as “pot heads” they’re completely frustrated by an inability to score weed in London, they counteract it with a raw dose of Jonathan Richman meets The Ramones brilliance. For everyone they’ve pissed off tonight with comments like “Don’t worry, Yeasayer will be on in a minute to kill the vibe”, it’s obvious that many have completely fallen in love with them.
Adored by many since the release of their lauded All Hour Cymbals, *Yeasayer *take to the stage with a rapturous welcome from the audience. Decked out in their Eagles by way of Williamsburg best, the four men in the band zip through their ‘jams’ with a crystal clear sound that’s far removed from what graced our eyes beforehand. Yet for all their clarity, there’s a core of trad-rock floating around Yeasayer tonight for much of the set. It’s difficult to wipe away thoughts of the band sticking closely to some early ‘70s template set by the likes of Santana or Pink Floyd. It’s only when everything starts drawing to a close, that something snaps and things start to push-forward again into the genre defying edges that electrified their record and has made them a rightful favourite of many since the latter half of last year. Best to view this one as a warm-up then. Not a failure by any means, but not entirely the celebration it should have been from start to finish.
Photo: Andy Malt
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