In an arts centre more pristine than cellophane-concealed chocolate by the name of RASA, Orchestra of Spheres, adorned in the contents of a joke/junk store whiz through an engaging and seemingly largely improvisational show, underpinned by rigid bass carillon lines hacked straight out of their Nonagonic Now record. If it all feels slightly gimmicky to the point of when a plant is moved into the room as ornamentation you half expect another vocalist to jump out from the bushy shrubbery, they're such an enthralling live act you're left wondering as to precisely why they worry themselves about records in the slightest. Were you to guess who, or perhaps where from, New Zealand would probably be fairly low down on the figurative list as the quartet owe substantially more to the countries of the African continent. Following forty minutes of jittery, restive disco via biscuit tin guitars and gamelans, the frenzied funk of closer Mind Over Might provides the highlight, breaking the hypnotic flow like a sharp and precise click of the fingers.
In Tivoli de Helling Forest Fire then seem especially soporific, speaking with the saccharine conviction of a flight deck announcer as they sluggishly trail through a set more lethargic than the slimy snarl of Dylan. Then, while Iceage busy themselves thawing out the perception that they'd bloodthirstily rip the head from your brother, your sister, and your mama too, along with every member of Cameo past and present in order to feast on malodorous innards and gizzards, in this none-too-glam setting My Brightest Diamond truly sparkles.
An Autoharp lies dormant as The Words That Maketh Murder drools from the PA, James, Shara Worden's friend, lover, and devoted roadie lovingly readying a kitsch, if quite charming stage setup. Worden momentarily enacts the part of "grand puppeteer" in a bizarre felt-laden intro, her garish getup resembling the guts of the Modeselektor monkey spilled and splattered all over the pavement as she chirps immaculately to Escape Routes, flicks an ominous thumb piano on the cyclical, Piaf-esque Everything Is In Line, and trills the sparse and macabre Magic Rabbit beneath disconcertingly sanguine spotlight. It's a fearsome moment, and she and her drummer make for a fairly fearsome duo. Masked interpretative dance interludes however are somewhat awkward and embarrassing as Worden creeps about to the sound of the odd thwack of drum and glitter of sample, dancing with various black cloaks strategically dotted about the stage, while Apples is mushy and saccharine to the point of becoming sickly. The cabaret schtick of High Low Middle however, a commentary on Worden's native Detroit, recoups an utmost credibility as she flings herself about, demonstrating dance moves to retrospectively wholly justify her inclusion in the ranks of Sufjan's Illinoisemakers. Like an indie Mickey Mouse Club, Worden has the voice of a Disney songbird, the sort that'd proffer sound advice and sweet song from a branch above a dim-witted Bambi.
She skips off only to return seconds later to hum through her contribution to Dark Was The Night, Feeling Good, accenting the "bees drifting on by" line atop the buzz of an amp that bumbles unceasingly throughout before a full circle is completed as we're returned to PJ Harvey, or more precisely Dry-era Peej as guitar strings break and Worden's meticulous hair becomes wildly undone. It's I Have Never Loved Someone however, transposed to guitar, that breaks the banks of the tear ducts, a contemporary canticle capable of breaking even a concrete heart.
While it may then be another show and yet another MicroKorg out of another flight case out of another tour bus, Gang Gang Dance prove entirely different and phenomenally so to anything to have preceded them. Strats are missing pickups here and there, speakers are shrouded in ethnic rugs, and as anticipation climaxes, a whiff of hiss seeps out from beneath the threads. Back in the lands where their equipment was disastrously burnt to a crisp a few years ago, tonight's set is rejuvenating, as fresh a start as any as cosmic scrapes of bass sail through an infinity of twinkling synth. Lizzi Bougatsos meanwhile staggers about on quite literally killer heels that could, in the wrong hands (or feet) impale the thickest, fleshiest chest. A suitably intergalactic six-minute intro leads into the trapeze-like guitars of Adult Goth, a message reading 'Positive Energy' swirling mesmerically in the background. In a world brimming with negativity, there's a restless optimism to Gang Gang Dance: they're quite terrifying in many respects and indubitably there'll be darkness behind the brilliant exterior but their ability to warp time (or at least the concept of) over an hour is both mysterious and mystifying. The set is transformed into a mix of sorts, the crew more motley than Tommy Lee could ever cobble together sticking percussive jam in every between-song lull as Bougatsos disappears with her Eastern mascot to return with shots and sticks of candy. There's inspired guitar processing, as many rim shots as an entire season of NBA, idiosyncratic mellifluousness in the melée, and a sumptuous new one as you're left furiously questioning where the fuck the likes of Chinese High, Eye Contact, and a genuinely anthemic MindKilla have been beamed in from. If a sense of enmity within the band camp may be sensed towards Bougatsos' enigmatic, ambling accomplice, well, there's nothing but adoration streaming back in their general direction.
