22/02/01, The Portland Arms, Cambridge

So here's the deal. Green Mind Presents (you got the flyer, and probably threw it away, being the counter-revolutionary scum you are) showcase three local bands here on a fortnightly basis. It could so easily be shit, nothing more than an obsolete gesture against the putrid reek of cheese we are exposed to in college and clubs, a nice idea with lack of any kind of substance. It's not, though. In fact, most people are going to leave with the vague impression that the world isn't quite so shit after all.

But first, Skinrush. Overawed by the amount of people present, hampered by the singer's cold (which may account for the amount of instrumentals) and a singular lack of charisma that would impress even the Tory Shadow Cabinet, they are more ideas than songs. They start off dark, broody, relentlessly propelled forwards by the drums and bass as the guitarist (and occasional singer), who finds his shoes so engrossing he looks at nothing else the entire half hour, studiously superimposes harmonically intricate lines to the texture, adding infrequent flu-inspired growls for good measure. But then it becomes clear that these three onstage statues just wanna rock, and so they do. Which is no bad thing, of course. If they could fuse the two extremes, get some onstage presence, (the bassists second rate attempts to cajole the audience during awkward between-song silences are no substitute) and drop their ill-advised cover of "She Don't Use Jelly" by The Flaming Lips (guys, it helps if you know the tune, and the chords, and stuff) they could be rather good.

The Cathode Ray Syndrome*, however, eight gigs in, already are good. With their shameless pretentiousness: an obscure name, with the asterisk for fuck's sake, shirts with slogans (eg. "Moderation Kills The Spirit"), a manifesto and the bassist's orgasmic headthrusts (think Flat Eric being buggered by an actual cathode ray tube. Thus the syndrome. *.) during songs, the children of such cynical times could react badly. It takes a good two seconds before we forgive everything and are offering up our children as a sacrifice to their all-encompassing music-religion. This is simply because you get drawn into their glorious sound, simultaneously heart-breaking and life-affirming, that lingers in ethereal melodies soothing yet disturbing, melodies that never resolve themselves, compelling us to listen. Then they soar irresistibly in volume and intensity to an urgent climax, drowning the listener in incessant waves that, still unresolved, collapse suddenly to a near silence, at which point the search restarts. This formula never becomes tedious, and the influence of Godspeed or Mogwai remains just an influence, that they effortlessly transcend. But what makes them so vital is that, unlike many of their ilk, they refrain from disappearing self-indulgently up their own rectum, singing to their bowels, but boring the rest of us, for the rest of eternity. Whilst I'm sure this is a lovely sensation, it misses out the communication bit that makes music such potent art form (and this is fucking art). For these guys are trying to speak to us, and given the moment of silent contemplation that greeted the end of their set, it's safe to say they did just that.

Poor old Monkey Steals The Drum. They are really rather unfortunate to come after CRS*. It's not that they're bad as such - cock is a better term - but their particular brand of insipid indie rock is an anticlimax to say the least. I really wanted it to be different. I wanted to forgive them the crusty look, the Americanised vocals, the Feeder comparisons. But when he said with no apparent irony "here's an acoustic ballad" that was one step too far. What really gets me is that GMP state (and I quote) "We will book anything provided it does not fall into the category of straightforward guitar pop". What the fuck these guys are doing here is beyond me. Their only purpose on this planet, so far as I can see, is to remind us, as if we needed reminding, exactly why CRS* are so important today. Because they are the alternative to the mediocre wank that saturates the kids. About fucking time, as well.

David Nowell-Smith writing in "the Cambridge Student"

Posted by Arthur CRS* on 05/08/2008 11:43:11 AM

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