More twisted and crazed than the minds of del Rey's coldblooded label dictators are Gentle Friendly, who trash out an almost constant, unabating stream of song entangled in the frenzied incoherencies of Deerhoof, underpinning any incomprehensibility with quopping disco patterns. Richard Manber of Munch Munch bashes the drums while simultaneously emitting sweeping surges of vibrancy from his keys as David Morris, crumpled awkwardly quite literally on the stage, plods away on equipment that sounds as though loaned from Fuck Buttons when not bleating unintelligible glee into the mic. Morris' jejune vox, particularly on the ecstatic Rrrrr, recall Liars had they a little more joy in their lives while forthcoming split release with Dustin Wong, The Shake Up, comes across like The Research flailing wildly into unrestrained overdrive. In the throes of an LSD-induced paroxysm of jubilation, tinged with the order of the attention deficited.
The contorted 'cod reggae' rump wiggler that is Horses and Dogs follows, and although in this specific N1 hideout bottles precariously placed on the hanging precipices of the stage are often rattled and shaken onto the floor below like penguins unintendedly slipping off the edge of icebergs, bottles, the floor, the stage, walls, and anything thwackable tonight becomes an addition to an already-expansive array of percussive bits and pieces. As wondrously raucous as they may be however, the Cardiffians are at their most musical and questionably best when Bunter clambers out from behind the drumkit to conduct a clatter through Ringerz. While their aural output may become somewhat more approachable, their live show remains equally conflictual, demanding complete and utter attention. For if your mind wanders outside of the ambience the avant-garde outfit doggedly sketch you endanger your security and well-being, your safety and welfare as you may end up with a tambourine flung in your chops or a sodden, shirtless being writhing around at your feet, ensnaring legs and miscellaneous limbs in cord and cable. Following a discussion on the merits of Virgin Media's programme-recording capabilities and the glories of Frozen Planet, hunks of hearty, almost gory HEALTH-like synths are hurled towards Daman's lofty vox on the irreprochable Dust Of Ages like bloodied slabs of slate aimed at hapless tree-nesting fowl, before the music stops and all four members bolt for a different instrument. It's like musical chairs for the ATP-adoring, and it's astonishing from the first yowl to the very last growl of closer A Bear. With a live show this sanity-splintering, the obtuseness of their apprehensive attitude towards recording is rendered logical, lucid, although fortunately a record is to emerge from the obscure. By the name of Illuminated People, on this evidence it'll surely become an obsessively-cherished Desert Islet Disc come 2012...
