As the dulcet, fluid tones of Canary are struck, all bodies rush from smoking areas and labyrinthian corridors into the already-rammed dank back room of Dalston's Shacklewell Arms like particles of the air we breathe rabidly clamouring to cram into a newly-breached vacuum. From the menacing and macabre-meets-Fisher Price plinks of Hearts in Home to the instrumental surges and splurges of fraught synth on Hundertwasser, while it'd be indolent to reel of a list of notable hes, shes, hairdos, and hair don'ts, tonight is all about one man. Kwes is barely visible to all not within spitting (or sweat-flicking) distance, the only discernible marker of his presence the bobble of a beanie that wobbles about ebulliently throughout as the room is rightfully packed like the densest of moist fruitcakes. And while the guestlist reads like an NME index, it's Kwes in place of the miscellaneous sultanas that respectfully, almost grudgingly tilts the spotlight in the direction of his festive jumper.
He remains heartwarmingly humble, often murmuring a "bloody hell" here, a heartfelt "thank you" there, later thanking live accomplices Elan Tamara and Georgia Barnes 'for instilling confidence within me to do the show, and play on stage with me'. Consequentially, we're all plunged into eternal gratitude towards Tamara and Barnes as there's an element of the extraordinary at work here, of the sort of musical experience that doesn't emerge all too often from the city's forbiddingly biblical weekly listings. A similar eve was spent at The Lexington back when Theme Park played the first of their now-infinite number of London shows and sonically too Kwes' voice draws fleeting, darting parallels with that of Miles Haughton. However while Haughton then twiddled some strings on a Strat, here Kwes is at his most formidable when thundering out crackling lines of bass. The dreamy, dew-encased Get Up already sounds like a hit and for once makes the psychedelic, botany-themed murals within this rudimentary cavern of a venue seem relevant, before proceedings are all wrapped up with a 10-odd-minute muffled jazz flump of a thing, a supremely intricate and unexpected early Christmas pressie of sorts. Thus while Warp may be renowned for championing and celebrating intelligent musical strands of a somewhat different variety, there's plenty of thought going into these off-kilter, bang-on songs of R'n'B-tinted, tangy pop, and reasons to be cheerful for all involved.
