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Desc / Saint Jude’s Infirmary
Cellar Bar Edinburgh
What remains of Desc are promoting their new Steve Albini-produced album
and trying once more to fulfill their long, long standing promise. Tonight
isn't their night. Each song starts with overblown nu-folk melodrama
which is pulled tunelessly through to a biliously avant-meaningless crescendo
which proves as empty and as clichéd as the static on the tv screen
that litters the stage. Throughout the three days that this performance
lasts the two talented side-men are martyrs to the singers hideously
studied turmoil. Faces are pulled, backs are turned to the crowd and
there is a much a primal screaming about nothing. Disappointing from
a band that has the talent to step away from such sub - conor oberst
hysterics.
Saint Judes Infirmary take the stage late, and most of the Sunday night
audience is drifting off. However, Saint Judes rise ill-temperedly to
the non-occasion. All squashed up on the miniscule stage and looking
like a shortbread tin velvet underground in their black and tartan robes,
their commited approach to gigging has left them and their mix of small-town
aggression and hipster friendly references - VU, New Order, Kills, ESG
- the only genuine contenders of the night. The lead guitarist looks
like Nina Nastisa’s intense little goth sister and sounds like
Patti Smith picking a fight with William Reid. The bass player’s
out-Hooks Peter whilst walking an invisible high-wire of inebration.
The singers have the ennui and glamour of Warhowl starlets and the drummer
looks like the young Johnny Cash still many, many miles from God.
The set culminates in a Hammer House of Horror meets Nation of Ulysses
soul-stomper that is Vampire. The bassist delivering a territying testitimony,
megaphone in hand, against the false godheads and faux rowdiness of the
Lahndon Town guerilla gig aristocracy. A short, sharp, electric howl
of a set - high in invention and lyrical impact if still a little short
in polish.
(Jan Langerak)
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