Oft viewed, far from erratically, as an act orbiting a cosmic aloofness, within a live context Alejandra Deheza and Benjamin Curtis' preaching from the
School of Seven Bells is lowered back down to this earthly realm in which we dwell, their intergalactic ethereality humanised. Moreover the stench emanating from the water closets of The Garage is putrid enough to bring all to their senses via gusts of repulsion, and could quite foreseeably be intaken on some faraway satellite. However here on this insubstantial patch of land SVIIB are the irradiate bodies and we the starry-eyed as the duo-cum-quartet for this actual tour diligently assemble an array of Hagstroms, recalcitrant laptops, and hazardous pedalboard makeups.
Despite sipping from lurid red plastic booze cup defecting, malfunctioned Secret Machine Curtis is something of an anti-frat, curled quiff to whip the eye of Boy Genius Jimmy Neutron from gaping socket flickered and hurled to similarly compulsive effect as the penetrative thrum of a newly configured intro. Counting just two in their ranks contemporarily, whilst they may numerically be further than ever before from the auspicious figure residing in the moniker they're sounding increasingly potent, like the residents of some remote monastery coming to terms with swirling analog synths on the thunderous, ritualistic tribalisms of an energetically rejuvenated Iamundernodisguise. As Curtis flounces theatrically, Deheza remains static; motionless; subdued, the biting quietude gazing out from the beaty heart of cataclysmic tempest and, anchored down by substantial bijoux, she offsets ideally her boisterous counterpart. Like Cleopatra adorned in full flaxen regalia coming together with a contorted take on Fleet St. barber, irregardless of her discreet presence and slight appearance Deheza and her imperious voice truly rule the show tonight: her iced coo penetrates thrusting bass romp and skidding hi-hats on The Night, prior to gently thawing an impactive euphoria out from
Disconnect From Desire standout, Windstorm. Although Deheza's forceful affirmation of swinging her weight around packs minimal punch, it's underlined with some sinister red marker of a synthetic palpitation that dishes out considerable thwack and whilst she may remain disconnected from the mob and mass with all eye contact concertedly minimised, a formidable sense of unity is conjured via the visceral stuff slipping from speaker.
The dubstep-indebted thump of Love Play meanwhile is a little suspect, trundling unhurriedly down a long, winding road to nowhere before the accutely angled slant of Curtis' capotasto adds a sharpened edge to the imposing guitar lines of White Wind. Somewhere between Lightning Blue Eyes and Block Rockin' Beats, if repetitive on record it here comes to life, reborn as saber-toothed brute in its subtly freeform state, with the trance-like vigour of Low Times proving oxymoronically ecstatic, retina-scorching spotlights adding a searing precision to the bleary-eyed rapture brooding within. It's momentarily possible to perceptibly make the pair out amidst the unremittingly dim lights and dry ice, and it's arguably their most cohesive moment as the track eventually erupts in arpeggio-flecked majesty. Curtis' guitars assimilate to the sounds of those flamboyantly swung by Martin Gore over the past three decades on recent single Lafaye which is, wholly justifiably, both delivered and received as greatest hit, as space-age melodrama to put Wembley Stadium to the sword as it sounds stentorian enough to set the planet to swing and shift as if a mere spherical metal dangling from Newton's cradle. Gilded with an increasingly glistering silver screen veneer, the gloriously cinematic surges of My Cabal are swiftly downsized by a lackadaisical Half Asleep: seeming precisely that, where its dual vocals once danced rings around one another, following Claudia's puzzling departure it now runs on half empty, finding itself wholly vocally lacking. Thankfully it's not to be their parting shot as an extended gambol through Sempiternal/Aramanth slowly yet surely, seductively, begins to approximate to Brakes' All Night Disco Party and although such a thing may remain but optimistic thinking, our humanly sensations have been well and truly tie-dyed with overdrive.
And with Ghostory now imbued with a greater coherency that's at once supernal in every sense, we're left wanting to scratch out a dash or two...
