A trundle down the Oudegracht, Utrecht's canal-shaped aorta of sorts and Still Corners are brooding moodiness via the chilling glare of lead vocalist Tessa Murray and the ambiguous projections that dart through the air, pixels of which splash across her features. Murray's vocals are directly reminiscent of those for which Nancy Sinatra is oft remembered and rhapsodised over as if warbled from beyond the grave, so timeless and spectral do they sound even in this immense room. The breathy Cuckoo, meditative Endless Summer, metronomic Into the Trees, and a cover of Springsteen's I'm On Fire all feature as the visuals prove dizzying, as if shot from within a whirring light carousel rotating at breakneck tempo. When not turning pupils into pong-like dots of fidget, swallows struggling through the winds of bleak midwinters can be seen swooping, adding to the opaque haziness of it all. In all honesty the London quartet probably pander too much to the expectation of the ethereal although it nonetheless remains relatively transporting.
Enigmatic in the extreme is of course 4AD menace Zomby. Teeth can probably be found swept into shadowy crannies the following morning from when many a jaw hit the floor as he (or someone in a V for Vendetta mask purporting to be he) emerged. Having tweeted of his arrival in Amsterdam days before, whether by the allure of the illicit or out of eagerness to finally actually turn up to a show, the fulfilment of this duty always seemed likely and as such, great expectations are palpable. Only intermittently visible from within a bulging cloud of dry ice, a pair of cronies ply the genre-skipping minimalism monger with whacked-out cigarettes and what must equate to more or less a case of Veuve Clicquot which he ostentatiously necks from the bottle. Following the nicely scuffed-up shuffle of Natalia's Song, he drops a house-y Lana Del Rey remix, doing significantly more talking and smoking than actually mixing. Whether or not the man behind the mask is the man perpetually masked, whoever it is is more joker or indeed joke than Joker as a pretty bland or at least numbed taste and haphazard mixing skills are exposed in the most appalling manner thinkable. While Dedication may be considered fantastisch in any language, it remains barely touched throughout what feels like an interminable ninety as the disconcerting yet strangely comforting sparseness of said record is gaudily (and often carelessly) plugged up with dodgy R'n'B. When laying off dull and lifeless, chart-engulfing hip hop he taps into more jungle than boasted by most continents. It feels a bit like going to see Paul McCartney only for the Beatle to crawl his way out of playing an endless marathon of a rendition of Hey Jude. And that'd be substantially preferable to this, even in these somewhat less salubrious suburbs of Utrecht that may be considered the ideal setting for the both urban and urbane sounds of recent releases. Instead we're thrown multiple tracks from various The Weeknd mixtapes and lots of what sounds like A$AP Rocky, layered with the blaring of synthetic klaxons and powered by all-too-predictable drops and clumsy breaks. Furthermore not when in Rome nor Utrecht is there time for a trance medley, nor for Soulja Boy, as it all becomes inexcusably negligent to the point of the offensive. Maybe if you've ever worn a beanie barely atop the crown of your head, or made the sign of a pistol with your hand and held it aloft, or ever indulged in krunk this somehow works on some deep and meaningful, profound level although it seems unlikely any enjoyment could possibly be derived from this. Irrespective, his entourage continue to skin up, feed him fizz, gawp and nod pseudo-enthusiastically in awe of the sort of mix usually heard blaring from some terrifying basement hangout on Guildford High Street. Conversely, conceivably, they could be there as beef, as walking, talking, human meat in case of angered outburst from a crowd that dwindles drastically. For while Zomby may be known to disappoint in pulling habitual no-shows, tonight is significantly more disappointing and, ultimately, dismaying as he unceremoniously sullies a year that's otherwise seen him derive radiance from the darkest recesses of a seminal record label roster. A lighter held aloft illuminates a middle finger, and that's exactly what's tonight proverbially proffered by whoever breathes marijuanan fumes from behind the mask, the wry and immobile smile of which says more than any number of wiggled fingers on noses ever could.
It'd always be an uphill struggle to recoup any enthusiasm from the pits of disinterest. Which is of course explicitly unfortunate for OM Unit, whose comforting, confidently assembled ambience for a moment provides apt antidote. However it's late, and too little in the wake of the aforementioned debacle and subsequently, begrudgingly, a twilight trudge homewards beckons.
