The Knee Drone Is Connected To The Thigh Drone
[NME, 2nd May 1981. Words: Paul Du Noyer. Picture: Anton Corbijn.]
THE KNEE DRONE IS CONNECTED TO THE THIGH DRONE
This ole house, the London Lyceum, becomes a gilded palace of synths tonight as it plays host to Daniel Miller’s Mute Records, a label that’s been instrumental in the development of electronic music ever since its first release, The Normal’s “TVOD” / “Warm Leatherette”. But there’s much more to Mute than that, as this evening’s assortment of attractions serves to show. Beginning with…
Furious Pig! Now it isn’t easy discussing people with a name like Furious Pig – such troublesome undertones of 1970 there – and that difficulty is made worse by their music. Perhaps best known as contributors of the most horrible one minute 28 seconds of the NME C81, the Furiouses are four in number and peculiar by nature. The set began on time, with the predictable result that I missed most of it, but what I did see was really quite startling.
The Pigs are a sort of shabby barbershop quartet who shout and bang things and walk around in a line and that’s about it. The one complete piece that I heard (their best number, said a passing Chris Bohn) was a succession of fearsome amplified growls, aggressively punctuated by hitting sounds – kind of simultaneously cute and ferocious. I’ll have to hear more.
Lulls between acts – and these Lyceum marathons can be daunting – are eased by Mutant humorous film shows: the sort of thing that should be the rule instead of the exception at rock gigs, surely.
Palais Schaumberg, the German group who followed, played music somewhere outside of my tastes, but the spirited good humour of their approach was very likable. It’s not every band that kick off with a song called “The Meaning Of Life” and get away with it. They’re electronic and, I suppose, experimental, but play with an advanced sense of fun; they’re not for me but could be for a great many others.
Stealers of the show were probably Depeche Mode, the group from Basildon. D Mode are three synths and a singist, visually in the Spandau Ballet mould but musically a very interesting proposition in their own right. Accompanied by some severe outbreaks of dancing, they pumped out a set of rhythmic attractive pop, highlight of which was the lovely, flowing hit-that-should-have-been, “Dreaming Of Me” – its title alone could make it the New Romantics’ anthem. “Boys”, which followed, was harder but almost as good. They encored a fine performance with a new version of “Price Of Love”, Bryan Ferry’s moving tribute to the man who makes his trousers.
Fad Gadget – he or they, whichever you prefer – are the last to take the stage. Five willowy young fellows, dressed as morris dancing harlequins, Dr Feelgood they ain’t. The rather effete spectacle that they present, however, is not borne out by their music, which is often raw, especially the vocals of Mr Gadget. In fact, Fad himself, once he lets go, is strangely reminiscent of Tenpole Tudor: a lanky, panicking streak, sweat-shined rib cage heaving under an open shirt.
The group line up with two drummers, one of them synthesised, plus guitar and keyboards: musically they represent electronic music’s hooligan element. It’s an energetic, entertaining set, well-stocked with decent material like the singles “Fireside Favourites” and “Ricky’s Hand”. Midway, though, the show’s appeal suffers a slight tailing off, and it’s as if the group play faster, with increasing desperation, to less and less effect – a symptom, maybe, of a shortage of ideas. Or maybe it was getting late: the Mute night was fun while it lasted, but it lasted an awful long time.
[NME, 2nd May 1981. Words: Paul Du Noyer. Picture: Anton Corbijn.]
THE KNEE DRONE IS CONNECTED TO THE THIGH DRONE
This ole house, the London Lyceum, becomes a gilded palace of synths tonight as it plays host to Daniel Miller’s Mute Records, a label that’s been instrumental in the development of electronic music ever since its first release, The Normal’s “TVOD” / “Warm Leatherette”. But there’s much more to Mute than that, as this evening’s assortment of attractions serves to show. Beginning with…
Furious Pig! Now it isn’t easy discussing people with a name like Furious Pig – such troublesome undertones of 1970 there – and that difficulty is made worse by their music. Perhaps best known as contributors of the most horrible one minute 28 seconds of the NME C81, the Furiouses are four in number and peculiar by nature. The set began on time, with the predictable result that I missed most of it, but what I did see was really quite startling.
The Pigs are a sort of shabby barbershop quartet who shout and bang things and walk around in a line and that’s about it. The one complete piece that I heard (their best number, said a passing Chris Bohn) was a succession of fearsome amplified growls, aggressively punctuated by hitting sounds – kind of simultaneously cute and ferocious. I’ll have to hear more.
Lulls between acts – and these Lyceum marathons can be daunting – are eased by Mutant humorous film shows: the sort of thing that should be the rule instead of the exception at rock gigs, surely.
Palais Schaumberg, the German group who followed, played music somewhere outside of my tastes, but the spirited good humour of their approach was very likable. It’s not every band that kick off with a song called “The Meaning Of Life” and get away with it. They’re electronic and, I suppose, experimental, but play with an advanced sense of fun; they’re not for me but could be for a great many others.
Stealers of the show were probably Depeche Mode, the group from Basildon. D Mode are three synths and a singist, visually in the Spandau Ballet mould but musically a very interesting proposition in their own right. Accompanied by some severe outbreaks of dancing, they pumped out a set of rhythmic attractive pop, highlight of which was the lovely, flowing hit-that-should-have-been, “Dreaming Of Me” – its title alone could make it the New Romantics’ anthem. “Boys”, which followed, was harder but almost as good. They encored a fine performance with a new version of “Price Of Love”, Bryan Ferry’s moving tribute to the man who makes his trousers.
Fad Gadget – he or they, whichever you prefer – are the last to take the stage. Five willowy young fellows, dressed as morris dancing harlequins, Dr Feelgood they ain’t. The rather effete spectacle that they present, however, is not borne out by their music, which is often raw, especially the vocals of Mr Gadget. In fact, Fad himself, once he lets go, is strangely reminiscent of Tenpole Tudor: a lanky, panicking streak, sweat-shined rib cage heaving under an open shirt.
The group line up with two drummers, one of them synthesised, plus guitar and keyboards: musically they represent electronic music’s hooligan element. It’s an energetic, entertaining set, well-stocked with decent material like the singles “Fireside Favourites” and “Ricky’s Hand”. Midway, though, the show’s appeal suffers a slight tailing off, and it’s as if the group play faster, with increasing desperation, to less and less effect – a symptom, maybe, of a shortage of ideas. Or maybe it was getting late: the Mute night was fun while it lasted, but it lasted an awful long time.