Foot Village, Blue Sabbath Black Fiji @ Dalston Trinity Centre
Foot Village, Blue Sabbath Black Fiji.
Dalston Trinity Centre. 14nov09.
There is a tall, raised stage at the Trinity Centre but neither band tonight bother to use it. Better, it seems, to be amongst ones public, when one is trying to bludgeon their senses.
For Blue Sabbath Black Fiji, this does appear to be the intention of their starkly apocalyptic, caterwauling, nihilistic noisecore. Frankly they make Fuck Buttons seem like Brian Conley playing Buttons in a production of Cinderella at the Runcorn Brindley.
With distorted guitars set to stun, distorted samplers keen to mutilate and distorted vocal mics ready to serve whatever meat is left hanging from you in a seeded bun, Blue Sabbath Black Fiji, as they say in their native Glasgow, set aboot ye.
It is brief but brutal stuff with Charles taking time out to charge into the crowd during his screams. Clearly he’s not noticed the “No Running! No Bullying!” sign pinned to the wall.
For this is, essentially, a scout hut we’ve been lured into, and with no lighting rig, a keen thinker improvises by crashing their open palm continually over the wall switches, the strobing of the tube lights continually flickering being perfectly in keeping with BSBF’s fractured din.
Foot Village are similarly stark and powerful, but with the focus much more on rhythm. It becomes clear we’re in for a lively old throwdown when all the players start to limber up with stretching exercises before they get amongst the four drum sets they have hunched into a tight central heart. Heart of beats, if you will. The pit of hit.
The Village aren’t the only band around doing the whole drums and vox thing, but while Wildbirds and Peacedrums are made ethereal flesh by Mariam Wallentin’s vocal patterns, Foot Village are all about the bones, big bones at that, and taking the concept to it’s arguably logical scream therapy conclusion.
They supplement the drums with two megaphones, like the liveliest picket line ever, and the odd off-‘mic’ roar. Frankly, though, they had me at the first collective thump of snares, as it’s hard not to give into the primal energy of ol’ Doctor Beat. Although tonight the good physician has arguably been replaced by his brother, PT instructor Beat, repeatedly lobbing medicine balls towards our face.
The band are pretty tight when they want to be, when they’re not chasing round the circle, hitting drums as they go, crashing into the opening row of bodies peering into their hectic, captivating workout. As such, their time with us passes all too quickly and, thankfully, before any of them pass out.
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