A mere sixteen months ago to the day, Hidden, the sophomore These New Puritans LP was outed, and instantaneously adored. Last time they set London to the sword, heads (or at least watermelons) rolled over in the Barbican, however the cavernous catacombs of the subterraneous Heaven seem a rather more fitting setting for the doomy, spunky post-punk hybrid they're now seen to have perfected. Redefining ambition every potentially precarious step of the way, from chainmail the trio progressed to woodwind, and the hype and hubbub eventually culminated in the aforementioned EC2 show. Yet tonight further change was promised, and whether it provided evolution or devolution would have to be experienced to be benchmarked, or believed...
As the lights dim, trilling motorbike snarls awaken spotlights, the throng caught dumbfounded like dysmorphic rabbits in Maserati glare. In place of bassoons, tonight the stage is cluttered with trombones and vibraphones, the menacing Jack Barnett strapping on a gritty bass and conducting his quirky orchestra through the atmospheric plinks of Vibes as a hooded Thomas Hein stage left hacks up yet more disconcertion on keyboards and laptop. Hearts then race to the off-kilter rhythms of pacemaker George Barnett, who continually thumps seven bells of shit out of his chrome black kit, markedly thudding to the fore on the segueing We Want War. Prior to arrival, hip hop cuts boom through speakers seemingly pushed to the point of quietus, one notably sampling Three Thousand and tonight the doom-laden, baroque-tinged track is entirely devoid of genre categorisation, equal parts Mulatu Astatke, Bauhaus and DOOM as bottomed out brass adds to the general sonority These New Puritans effortlessly conjure. Continuing to hurtle through the Hidden tracklisting, the warped balladry of Hologram follows as Jack Barnett's skeletal figure drifts in and out of shadow and shade, however it's here that the Southend-on-Sea troupe depart Hidden run through, as another pristine, already fully formed vibraphone-led track is unleashed, the deeply affecting Royal Song. In keeping with tradition, a solitary female intermittently graces the stage, although she provides a variation on shows past purely in that she wasn't around last time round. She remains unnamed as Barnett mumbles only monosyllables throughout, and later aids in elevating a devastating Attack Music to all new operatic highs. Orion, Canticle and a distinctly melodramatic Drum Courts - Where Corals Lie have all been successfully reconfigured to cater for the shift in genetic make-up of the live beast, before a visceral Infinity Ytinifni (one of only two diversions into the Beat Pyramid) sees Barnett drawl almost incoherently with the gruelling vehemence of a certain self-professed Creator. He then takes to the background, to twinkle away on the top end vibrato loops of 5. The obligatory encore is composed of a gloriously dissonant Costume and significantly more mellifluous White Chords, the lurching greatest hit they never had. It seems as though the antimony and abhorrence has subsided somewhat, although precisely what behemoths they've created whilst concealed, hidden away in midwinter is yet to be fully unleashed. Crawling out of hibernation in primaveral climes however, the future remains resplendent.
