Playlouder - Music is the Network

Beware the perils of Valentine’s Day, for it is when strange lunatics with nothing to lose roam around the streets wailing, gnashing their teeth and gnawing their wrists, and at least some of them have ended up in The Old Blue Last for My Ex-Boyfriend’s Records’ night of live music and indie disco.

In fact, a few of them even seem to have made their way onto the stage, not least Stricken City’s Rebekah Raa, who looks like the girl that crawled out of the TV screen at the end of Ringu, if she’d been animated by a drunken puppeteer. It matters little how near her cavernous mouth is to the microphone, as she’s capable of such warbling, sonic boom volume that the presence of the thing seems merely a formality. One members of the audience is heard comparing her to a half-powered Dyson, another to Björk. Either way, she’s no nodding dog. If anything she reminds me of Siouxsie Sioux, but is certainly less annoying.

The rest of the band are inevitably existing in her shadow, (the bassist keeps his hood up as though to avoid detection), but their new wave cavalcade is a force that builds as the set goes on; reverb-heavy pop rock, sometimes moody, sometimes madcap, from Stricken City we expect big things.

The Strange Death of Liberal England also have a good name, if only because it’s long, and it makes you think they must have read books at some point (presumably that one, for a start. Although, I wouldn’t start with it – I haven’t even read it, so…)

Beginning your set by flinging balloons into the audience is one way to make friends. Having ‘Repent! Repent!’ written on them may well sour the effect somewhat. And choosing black balloons, too. Black for Valentine’s Day? Really.

The Portsmouth five piece are a band clearly striving to defy categorisation, but I’d quite happily slot them in alongside Stricken City in the loony bin. Apart from holding up signs reading ‘Just a modern folk song’ and ‘angelou angelou angelou’ (amongst other things), the band members can’t seem to keep still – they constantly swap drumming duties for guitar, bass for keyboard: it’s like musical chairs up there.

Sonically, their influences come from post rock and anthemic indie, not the most natural of bedfellows, and in their quiet-loud sprawl and hit and miss riffs there’s a whole junkyard of opportunity. I defy anyone not to enjoy at least part of the set. Personally, the haphazard ramshackle blitzkrieg ethos of their live set pleased me very much indeed.

The effort invested is entirely (and amusingly) at odds with their lacklustre crowd banter; lead singer Adam Woolway pauses after track number 2.5 to mutter, “We are The Strange Death of Liberal England. You can applaud when you want to.” How nice of him to clear up that often-awkward conundrum! The closest to an encore in his repartee is a brief “shush” before going into one of the quieter numbers. Again, I have to applaud here, (not literally – I’ve made the informed decision that this wouldn’t be the right time), I’d do it myself (rather often) but for the fact that a) it’s not very rock ‘n’ roll and b) I’m not-participatory.

Oh, and his voice, often cited as evidence in misleading Arcade Fire references, (TSDOLE are at least more exciting), is more akin to that-bloke-from-two-gallants wailing painfully away in Eliabeth Frazer’s made up gibberish.

Their mastery of the pacing that’s so crucial to the rockier side of post rock is such that at the crescendo, surely exactly on the half hour mark since they took to the stage, they abruptly discard their weapons, leave them hissing feedback on the scattered amps, and promptly bugger off.

We’re left staring at an empty stage, safe in the knowledge that if a joke’s been cracked, it’s definitely on us: the withdrawal technique is guaranteed to frustrate. The Strange Death of Liberal England are pretentious, hilarious, deathly serious, and fucking brilliant.

Like the unfulfilled lovers we are, we spill out into the night and smoke, and drift away like smoke, (smoking) – except for the happy couples, who remain above, dancing to DJs from Maximo Park and Good Shoes. Who am I to begrudge them that pleasure? Time for me to wank off a tramp and earn my fried chicken. Love is in the air. Love is all around. Love is in the ground.