Gig Review: RECKNO 7 @ The Gander

Familiarity may well breed contempt, but I wouldn’t know about it. From not knowing where the fucker was, The Gander's become almost a second home to me, and (I suspect, don’t know) to many people from the Bournemouth music scene. The re-emergence of Chris Catlin’s Reckno night at the venue has gone some way to helping promote this happy state of affairs. Despite not boasting the all-star billings which dealt the micro-label’s finances a heavy blow last year, this second Reckno of the year was still very respectably attended, even though many simply stood around talking through the first few acts (fuckwits – what do you fucking come to gigs for?!)

JayetAl, a drums-guitar duo (one of my most beloved set-ups) from Winchester (one of my not-so-beloved places) began with a laptop synth rhythm that sounded like someone had contact-miked a hornet nest, the drummer – a stout, bearded gent who spent most of the time looking like he’d been installing a shower with the water still running – laying down a shuffling, aggressive rhythm and the guitarist – reminding me, in his Rambo headband and frequently sweat-drenched attire, of Kazuo Imai at Instal back in February – set off riffs like angry greyhounds. (God, that was a long sentence.) Each piece ended as suddenly as it began, and as they ploughed through song after cranked song, the level of levitational energy got higher and higher. The drummer, so unerringly steady in his rolling storm patterns he could have been mistaken for a heavily accelerated Amen break sample, held down stinging, slamming rhythms in between the ricocheting blasts of laptop noise, the guitar becoming ever more noisy and aggressive with each cycle through the riff, shooting off on (improvised?) mini-expeditions before returning to the centre. They allegedly caused mass outbreaks of spontaneous dancing as support on HEALTH's last UK tour, and I can almost believe the hype in this instance.

The cheetah lives: Dildano (pictured) have to be one of the most trouser-stainingly vital bands in the country, a marvellous mess of bone-dry, opaque humour, skeleton-rattling grooves and mumbled, wet vocals. Hopping off and onto the stage while churning out the tightest of seemingly loose-as-the-village-bicycle Beefheartian grooves, striking the most ridiculous rock poses (minus, unfortunately, the scissor-kick) available, there was no way they weren’t having fun. I’ve been a bit, uh, hyperbolic of my praise of them in the past, dropping names like Gang Of Four and The Birthday Party (no empty signifiers, believe me – I love both those bands with all my heart); I’d like to revise such comparisons: you would be better imagining them as Dick Dale and The Del-Tones as possessed by Pavement, covering Doc At The Radar Station-era Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band (for this last one you can substitute Double Nickels On The Dime-era Minutemen.) (These, in turn, are no empty signifiers, just to let you know.) They have a brilliant sense of tempo and timing, seemingly playing out of time with each other, each instrument apparently snaking along on its own idiosyncratic course, before you realise it all comes together perfectly; they’re equally adept at cracking punchlines and varying their repertoire, dropping a slow, tense number in just the right place, and not allowing release. It’s great to have them.

I’d like it to be stated here that True Swamp Neglect's new LP, Cloud Cloud Cloud, is a serious contender for album of the year, at least in my books, which will likely be unchanged when I look back in fifteen years, a lonely, nostalgic wreck. Hyperbole maybe, but you wouldn’t expect anything less, would you? They started with one of their new songs, which, with its incredibly mobile rhythm – Barney and Ciaran rattling along at a marvellously judged pace – and sudden shots off into rattling guitar, would be a sign of marvellous portent for the third album, if it weren’t for the fact that it will likely never arrive. They proceeded to drop hit after hit – ‘Hands’, ‘Map Of The Map’ (during which your correspondent became decidedly overexcited, practically screaming during the customary drop-outs), a double-billing of mounting-tension-filled spoken-word piece ‘T Song’ (I still haven’t figured out what the fuck it might be about) and mini-freak-out ‘Young Vampire’ (abstract riffs and fuzzed-out electronics moving every which way), and an utterly devastating ‘Dry-Eyed Riot’, the steely five-man instrumental tussle coated in amp-wrecking feedback. A slightly shortened (certainly not 26-minute) version of ‘Cloud Cloud Cloud’ finished proceedings. I doubt I’ll ever quite figure out what it is that gets me about this song, and I don’t feel like investigating it in this space here; but during the middle section known as ‘Chess Party’ the high-wire tension and spiralling emotional power was almost overwhelming, building as Chris sang the line “Will you burst into tears?/Will you burst into flames?” over and over, me singing along until I was hoarse, the instruments shooting off into the stratosphere around him. The song slowly collapsed into ambient damage, rising briefly for a few last strums and disappearing into the back of my memory.

I occasionally see the artist known as Amateur around Bournemouth – at work, at Bournemouth Library. He seems like a very curious type (not that I’ve ever spoken to him.) He didn’t seem to speak to anyone except the barman before starting to play: with an ancient jumper, sports slacks and a white plastic bag over his head, he poked at the open laptop on the table on stage, setting off a dense cacophony of spidery beats, acid blats and jumping bass lines. Needless to say, I’ve not listened to nearly enough in this line to come up with many references, but there was definitely something of Cylob (to pluck a name from thin air) in there. His stage presentation – or lack thereof: he wandered offstage just after the first song started, and only came back on occasionally, usually either fiddling with the laptop, standing there or doing a short jig – was infuriating and oddly charming in equal measure; both that aspect and his tunes had clearly improved since I last saw him. Someone to watch out for, maybe *shrugs*.

Blackpepper is exactly the kind of person I should hate. He’s monstrously talented (and getting better, as I understand it – well, that’s what art school’s for) as an artist, and his ambient/downtempo guise under his own name encompasses some really nice work made apparently in his spare time. Then he comes up with a laptop to gigs like this and unleashes alternately ass-shaking and beautiful jungle under his aforementioned alias. I mean, fuck sake, where does this guy get off? Sarcasm/self-hatred aside, what I heard of what he delivered (I left, stupidly, just as the torrent of breakbeats was kicking in, echoing down the stairs behind me) was brilliant, astonishingly mobile, complex and not merely danceable but irresistible. I’ve think I’ve described his sets enough times to avoid having to do so again. Let’s just say that he, amongst others, will always lure me back here. Cheers.

Dan Barrow