Hoof!

Everyone said they were coming to Deerhoof. All my friends. As it turned out, no one that had actually told me they were coming, came. I even cancelled a headlining Nachmi gig at the Head of Steam in order to get myself to Sunderland to see one of the most inventive, original bands kicking around.

So there I am on the Metro by myself, venturing to Sunderland on my tod, when an incredibly wired bunch of twenty-something charvas get on at the Central Station stop. Sweating and wild-eyed, they look like they’d necked a litre of vodka and Red-Bull, and a decent dose of crack. That’s my guess. Maybe they’re just vibrant individuals with a lot to offer the world.

I put on my best bored, unbothered look and paid them no visible mind. The most lethal looking bloke even took a healthy glance in my direction, while I got on with the business of listening to Bill Callahan’s ‘Day’ on my particularly girly pink ipod. Given my appearance of some kind of smart cas sixties throwback and with my ‘distinctive’ hair style, I tend to attract the attention of charvas. I often boast about my ability to defuse the onset of violence and malicious badgering from curious young folk, but I wasn’t feeling at all able to deal with these smacked-up radgies. There was just nothing doing.

I was lucky. I was able to allow Bill C to create a wonderfully serene and wholly inappropriate soundtrack to the evening’s performance of this bloke getting right up in the face of the unfortunate bald guy sitting just opposite me. Mr bald was listening to his music too. What can I say, sometimes it pays to have hair.

Radgie: "What are you doing? Look at those headphones man!"

Bald bloke sits there patiently waiting for him to stop talking, and hopefully leave.

Radgie: "Look at these fookin’ headphones man! They’re massive! You wanna have them in yer fooking ears man, not these ones on your head, these are massive! You fookin’ cunt. Get some proper fookin’ earphones, you fookin’ cunt! Who do you think you are with these fookin’ massive fookin’ headphones you fookin’ cunt. You look like a fookin’ cunt with these headphones!"

Bald bloke just sits there a bit stunned, as (no doubt) Rod Stewart’s ‘Maggie’ soundtracked his fear. I was fairly sure I had no banter that would calm down someone this sweaty and full of aggression, if he turned on me. Not that I was going to voluntarily get involved in this nonsense. I suspect me piping up with, “leave him alone you horrible bully”, might not have got anyone very far at all.

Me to hospital.

We got to the next station, Gateshead. “Look at these fookin’ things man. Listening to your shit music on your stupid fookin’ massive headphones.” He started getting up. “I mean, who do you fookin’ think you are, man?” His sweaty mates got off. He was following, shouting, “you fooking cunt! Fookin’ earphones are what you want mate…not thems!”

The man, and the carriage breathed a sigh of relief. We were all safe now. Horrible drug addict man/opinionated hyperactive man with a lot to offer the world were gone now. It’s gonna be ok. I feel sorry for Gateshead though.

So, Deerhoof. The Independent venue was a veritable who’s bloody who in the Newcastle indie scene. We had ambassadors from Field Music, Maximo Park, Sefelt, Shin Jin Rui, Milky Wimpshake, No-Fi, Nachmi (ahem), and a whole bunch of music promoters. Many people were saying nice things about Nachmi (now that we are no more). We have organised a farewell gig at the Cumberland for this Monday, and everyone assures me that they will be in strong attendance. Well, people don’t like to miss an ‘event’. A Nachmi gig is one thing, but a Nachmi Farewell Gig is something else entirely…

I watched KIT play first. They boshed out a very decent attempt at a Deerhoof tribute act. They had a nice line in distorted guitars and messy free drumming, and there was a female singer who jumped around a lot and whined and screamed in the microphone. It all smacked of an art project, frankly. The title of which: ‘Be Deerhoof for a night.’

Pretty harsh that, isn’t it. Yeah, I guess…

Next up, Chippewa Falls. Local lady twins play guitar post rock with an impressive and rather heavy-handed drummer. I enjoyed their mix of brooding guitar riff soundscaping and short punky blasts. They have an endearing manner on stage, and watching Narbi kick the shit out of the drum kit is always a pleasure. It does somehow feel like something is slightly missing though, like there should be a lead to follow, or some singing, or maybe some jumping…decent though.

I was a little distracted during them, as I bumped into Pete Dale. Given my blog post (Oldham and Academia) which is a touch, umm, critical of a lecture he gave the other week, we had some obvious issues to resolve before polite conversation could be honestly engaged in. As I suspected, he’s a lovely bloke and we had an enjoyable conversation about music and his family. He tells me his wife, a discerning musical person is quite taken with our band. Which is nice…

So Deerhoof then. They started with Milk Man, the most structurally complex pop masterpiece I’ve ever heard. Guitar and basslines interrelate, call and respond while the drums do everything at once. Shit, what can I say, it becomes immediately apparent that all three of them are immensely talented.

The guitarist stalked the back of the stage with his beautiful custom built guitar, his face madly contorting and his mouth ducking to the nuances of his impossibly wild and complex chord progressions. One second, a high-pitched picked part, the next a massively distorted bass rumble and squealing feedback. All completely controlled. Conceived and executed with impressive care.

The drummer, what to say? Unbelievable. Right at the front right of the stage, he had the simplest of kits, with just booming bass drum, big snare drum, a cowbell and a huge hi-hat comprising of what looked like two ride cymbals. Despite the simplicity, he managed to do just about every conceivable thing with it. Gliding over the improvisatory moments, while hammering it hard when necessary. He was completely metronomic despite the brain-wrecking complexity of his polyrhythmic beats. Such sensitivity of touch and such a close ear to the sound.

And the singer. A tiny Japanese women with a Paul McCartney style Hofner bass, that practically drowns her. She has a high-pitched sweet voice, making simple exclamations (“Panda panda panda pandaaa!”) and complex melodies in English and Japanese. It is often hilarious, but also rocking and sometimes very sweet and sensitive. She pulls various shapes out of the air with her hands and legs and when she smiles, it melts.

The resulting energy is utter madness and intensity. Controlled playfulness and thrilling variations in rhythm and time signature, dynamic and timbre. They are just as happy allowing free-form noise pieces to spread out as with hammering out faithful versions of their catalogue of pop classics: Milk Man, Flower, Panda, The Perfect Me, +81, Kidz Are So Small (“If I were a man and you a dog, I’d throw a stick fooor yoooou!”)

Good effort, basically.

I got a lift home…