Gig Poster: Moldmas 2019
-YES (THE BASEMENT), MANCHESTER-
Locomotion across these fair Isles carries risks varied in quantity; the expense of purse, untimely demise (Ringo Starr’s narration would be of little use here), disorientation (route discernment failure typically), contributing to the coffers of the faceless conglomerates, and in the case of this narrative impeding one’s travel with the unfortunate result being I miss the Early Morning’s opening set… yet again… I apologise.
Blanketman
A sandwich concealed, I arrive to catch a familiar act bearing the emblem of the very train lords I railed against earlier (an act of twisted symbolism and/or a pun in bad taste?), yet matters of graphic design really have about as much relevance in this setting as a horse-drawn cart trying to compete in an age of omnipresent mechanisation. The obvious difference between the times I have written about them previously and now is that they have attained a 5th Beatle in the form of a synthesiser operator and at times rhythm guitar user, which alters their typical sonic trajectory away (to an extent) from the punk-one-could-call-post, although certainly not in a has-been trying to remain relevant in the 1980s kind of way as the modulation-induced screeching adds a new layer without crossing the instrumental line.
Since the date of this show is near that of the birth of the perceived messiah, the performers see fit to cover Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’, arguably one of the few contexts I’ve enjoyed Christmas music in a public setting within adulthood. Songs about a mysterious man, the frustrations of situational repetition and working less than 35 hours per week are other topics dispensed as the tambourine at times employed is used against the man-made percussive structure observed as the ceiling.
Starlight Magic Hour
Unlike the Pink Room, the sound quality in this particular basement (or the bunker from Downfall) is reliable and consistent in quality; a literal reversal of what happened when I last saw Starlight at that warehouse bearing hotel in its name. They’ve simplified the number of performers (presumably not permanent), which helps decrease the busyness to a more suitable level of busy. The reverberation of the clarinet particularly stands out, in a snake charming type way that doesn’t infringe on animal cruelty, due to the evident lack of reptilian entities present. Hearing the word ‘daddy’ in the lyrics (at least two songs?) invokes concern but the idea of attempting to dissect the lyricism and put forth a faux-Jungian analysis of what they could represent wouldn’t be of any use to anyone beyond showcasing negative journalistic tropes, although since all the members are male it makes for an interesting juxtaposition.
The communal approach to the singing paints a detached musical theatre scenario, albeit far less choreographed and fortunately eschewing the horror of Broadway kitschiness. Their final number has this lamenting tone to it, slowly building from just one vocal into a climax that highlights the synchronicity one can achieve through regular rehearsal and competent organisation; not entirely sure if they did a Christmas song but it matters not as their performance was worthwhile to see.
Mold (photo: Liv Kenny)
Mold
A spoken word introduction about the folk with monocles giving our metaphorical strings the snip is yet another reminder that no matter how hard you try, the pinstriped man will always deceive you into looking backwards while he steals your carefully collected deck of limited edition playing cards you attained legitimately. Anyway, much like the former, the amount of personnel has been simplified to but a 4 piece in comparison to the Valentine’s Day show I covered, although that doesn’t compromise their prog-in-punk’s-clothing procedure; if anything it’s more concise.
Using a term to describe the employment of two drummers in competition with each other such as ‘tribal’ would be a little on the mundane side, so I won’t. Instead, place an octopus or two with a piece of kit (cymbal, bongo, high-hat, etc.) on each of their arms and put them in an active washing machine (overclocked if possible) that could accommodate them and it would be an analogy far more interesting than the typical observation as typed on the top of this paragraph. Their instrumental manoeuvres would scare any Tory voter into a (hypothetically) strategically placed meat grinder, which would tie into the cannibalism themes mused upon briefly (and that single of theirs), with the added benefit that it would be more socially acceptable nowadays.
With the title Moldmas being thrown around, appropriately a cover of that Christmas song regarding the descent of a chimney jumps out with a fun, nihilistic slant with the added touch of the differing timbres of the vocalists putting forth a vision of a more health conscious Saint Nicholas eating a selection of Quorn victuals only to then discover they are meat and probably not of sound origin. An enquiry about how the audience would like to present themselves in a culinary format post-expiration and the addition of an audience singalong for ‘Silent Night’ is evidence enough Judeo-Christian theology is, like that sentence about a horse-cart earlier; more or less irrelevant.
Mold: Facebook
Recent career decisions have compelled me into the journalistic... thing; I could list my literary influences or even debate which 3rd rate beverage has the best economic value per litre (But I won’t). Oh, in addition, I write reviews for the Independents Network.
