Live: Yuck? Anything But... Bush Hall.

Shepherd's Bush is predominantly renowned for its shady twilight green, the now-hideously corporate Empire and Antipodean dominance. But a few hundred metres away from the aforementioned central hub, amidst a plethora of kebab houses lies Bush Hall, a lavish venue almost burlesque in aesthetic that tonight hosts yet another NME Awards show, this time featuring scuzzy, fuzzy lo-fi of the highest order. With the radiators on full blast and an increasing throng congregated before the Hall's titchy stage, dwarfed by towering corniced ceiling, let's begin. Up first are gangly retroists Guards, Richie James Follin's shoulder-length locks jangling in synchronicity with the glorious harmonies of Resolution Of One and the tie-dye psychedelia strains of Crystal Truth. Follin, after a moment's respite reemerges, this time backing up cutesy New York duo Cults. Much ado was roused when they released a slick-as eponymous 7" almost twelve months ago, and they've finally crossed the pond to recruit more followers to spread their soulful, genre-straddling gospel. Comprised of couple Brian Oblivion (totally carries off the surname) and Madeline Follin, sister of the aforementioned brother Follin, they shimmy and shake through half an hour of unadulterated secular ecstasy, the xylophonic Go Outside getting shoulders slinking and overpriced drinks spilling. The dirty blues blast of The Curse is preluded by the winsome Most Wanted, Follin (female) clutching the hem of her virginal dress, swaying to and fro throughout. Opener Abducted is perhaps what Be Your Own Pet would have sounded like had they been intent on breaking hearts as opposed to furniture and garages, whilst the sultry Oh My God blooms into the most adorable chorus this side of Beach House's teen dreams. When they come a-knocking on the front door, sign yourself away to the cult...
Unless you've been hiding under a rock where the BBC don't shine, you'll be fully aware of Yuck and the J Mascis-indebted distortion oomph they peddle. Recently returned to British shores following an extensive US slog, if frontman and ex-partier of a Cajun variety Daniel Blumberg's double denim look is strong, their setlist is veritably muscular. Taped up Jazzmasters and Jaguars create a howling frenzy, as Holing Out jolts into frenetic activity. Buckle up as Yuck knuckle down... Their eagerly anticipated self-titled debut LP just dropped, and it's inevitably from this that much of tonight is drawn, Stutter, Sunday and Rose Gives A Lilly the few album tracks neglected as the Stoke Newington quartet bluster through the wondrously scatty The Wall and tender Shook Down with distinct equanimity. The coy Milkshake is an unanticipated crowning moment, suitably sacharine if your sweet tooth craves mild distortion and heart-on-the-dotted-line emotion, whilst the mellow, Cure-like Georgia sees Blumberg harmonise with arcane bassist Mariko Doi. The sliding despondence of Suck emulates sensations of being involuntarily drawn to a plughole, swirling about an impending abyss of potential lovelessness and is irrefutably lovely, before a roisterous Operation, sung by Max Bloom, gives Blumberg the license to lose himself in an aura of raging feedback. Coincidentally, feedback is then the prime objective of expansive denouement, Rubber as its languid drone deafens and delights in equal measure, their controlledly cacophonous live show reinforcing the statement affirmed by their eponymous album that they're anything but Yuck.