Foreplay

This weekend past was something of the foreplay to next weekend’s orgiastic meltdown of Dublin’s gig overload. With Deerhunter, Dan Deacon, Fleet Foxes, Beach House, White Williams, Jape, High Places and some lad who ripped off that Jack L song “Hallelujah” all vying for attention on Saturday alone. Last weekend was a gentle stroke on the leg and coy look in comparison to this forthcoming veritable laneway ride. But as any glossy mag will tell you, sometimes the build-up’s the best part.

Providing the aforementioned coy looks on Friday evening in the soon-to-be-a-pile-of-cement Andrew’s Lane were five Swedish ladies that, rather frighteningly, are actually younger than me. Those Dancing Days is a particularly suitable band name for the Scandavian troupe, as they ply their trade in the nostalgia-steeped shiny-happy-people songs that one can dance like a camp badger to. And indeed a frenzy of camp-badger-dancing was on show as the girls tore through their simplistic, though instantly memorable catalogue of killer choruses and melancholy lyrics. You’ve seen this all before, and certainly prominently from Sweden (see Shout Out Louds and PBJ for reference points), though possibly never pulled off with such charming exuberance as guitarist Cissi Edraimsson (who receives an extra cheer upon leaving the stage) and keyboardist Mimmi Evrell seep. The band are visibly thrilled with each song they complete, as if the whole show might fall apart any second. Given the rough edges shown live that aren’t on show in their super-smooth single releases to date perhaps they’re right to be so worried. The band ooze potential, and will no doubt enjoy swooning previews with words such as “twee”, “uplifting” and “please let me elope with you” upon their second Irish visit (whereupon they may realize they’re not in Scotland. Bless.)

Saturday night is more serious business. Given that the Notwist are commonly referred to as the “German Radiohead”, their Button Factory gig coinciding with their Oxford counterparts is somewhat problematic calendar-wise. Nevertheless, the venue was nigh-on filled out with Neon Golden-devotees. The Radiohead comparison, it must be said, isn’t a lazily-made one. The Notwist’s balance of intelligent beats and attention to texture, combined with their tendency to rip three shreds of shite out of their guitar at the most spontaneous moments is their calling-card. The gulf between older, more guitar driven noise attacks sit somewhat awkwardly with newer, IDM/ambient tracks is stark at times, though within songs the melding of synth, sampler, guitar, drums and vocals fold together as organically as imaginable. Their set is surprisingly bare of tracks from latest album “The Devil You + Me”, though Boneless is a highlight. The band mined Neon Golden dry, and also dug up some gems from earlier albums. These were the ones that lasted two minutes and left one with a mild headache when finished. A fluid and funky version of Pilot saw the band at their darkly glorious best in a somewhat toploaded set that meant interest may well have dropped off for the non-ardent fans of the band towards the end. There was something detached and somewhat personality-free about the band, communicating as little as possible (although electronics man Console’s use of a Nintendo Wii remote to trigger his pedals and samplers clearly makes him too cool to have to talk to anybody, ever.)

Impersonality is not an accusation that can be levied at Evangelicals, who brought their fucked up psychadelia to an almost-empty Whelans on Sunday night. With a singer that could well be Rich Hall’s acutely camp twin brother, a guitarist with a sparkly cape and seriously intriguing altered trousers, a bassist who is Johnny Borrell (is), a drummer who might just well be their dad and some well-placed soft porn on their equipment, the Oklahoma-based band wear their singularity on their sleeve. I found their recent album, The Evening Descends, esoteric at first, enthralling after a second listen, and an entertaining, though not always attractive experience thereafter. Their live show was much the same, minus the “first listen” part. Clearly not phased by the fact the crowd was tiny, or that their equipment was banjaxed (”D strings are for pussies!” quoth frontman Josh Jones) bounced through their spasmodic, disorientating and often downright delirious songs with all the excitement of a caffeine-fuelled guinea pig. The melody that sometimes has to be searched for on record came through more clearly live, and the raw power even more potent. Proof as if we needed any, that oddballs are always the most entertaining

One final thought from a certain Tripod gig on Monday night: How in the name of Guus Hiddink does Stephen Malkmus know who the fuck Ruud Van Nistelrooy is?

Photos courtesy of the lovely Cait Fahey, Turgidson and Loreana Rushe respectively.