Saturday night finds the Dry bar home to a veritable extravaganza of local talent on two floors, and after a mad dash back across town (I thought this was all gonna be taking place at Academy 4) I’m there in time to see THE MERGE take to the upstairs stage.
From Manchester via the Channel Island of Jersey, they’re a 4-piece with Korg/Roland synths manned by Nicky boy Healey, who gave the keys some hammer during the band’s short sharp set. Melodic, the band’s sound is sleaze-filled and low-down dirty, and their songs were peppered with lyrics such as ‘She dances like she fks me’. As the bemused crowd peered through a myriad of harsh lighting, the boys cranked it up with ‘Me and the Free(ak?)’.
The next number was a new one, and the big drum rolling tune had atonal drop outs galore weighing the sound back down as scowls from front man/guitarist Ross began to darken the mood of the onstage delivery.
Tales of coked-up psychedeeeliarrr were woven in and out of the Wurlitzer sounds of one song, whilst all thing pastoral were heightened in lines about ‘Late November…’. Military drumming and the stop-start wah-FX intensified as the stormclouds gathered. Their last one was perhaps their most impressive offering, but blackened by the usual tale of onstage sound problems unnoticeable to anyone except themselves, they flounced offstage to the sound of breaking glass, as a pint pot was thrown from within their ranks at the back door. As brattish gestures of disgust go, we’ve seen it all before. Me? I’ve yet to see any engineer make sense out of the high-ceiling-ed cavernous space to the rear of this vast oblong drinker. THE MERGE have played here before, and they should know…..
Downstairs, the sound is contained by the smaller size of the room, and is much the better for it. The smaller bar was closed as folks tiptoed and stood on top of chairs for a better view of 6-piece outfit, THE RULES, who wowed the assembled with tales of hopeful doom (‘The end is near, but not for me’). Their shimmering sound was down to a triple guitar assault, with the two rhythm lads mirroring the chord structure of each song as the bearded singer raked out the lead melody in between soothing bursts of harmonica.
Toes tapped as relationship breakups were celebrated: ‘I’ll be leaving you forever-rr-rr’ yowled their folked-out frontman as their tunes bounced along in perfect, if slightly pedestrian, 4/4 time. My thoughts aside, the audience reaction – friends and family apart – was good.
Heads were scratched and mini-missions were organised to find cymbal stands for Greg, the bemused looking, but outwardly calm drummer of Stockport punk heroes THE CASINOS. As guitarist and band stress-head Adam sorted a setlist and psyched himself up for the big push, singer Sav. knelt on the edge of the stage to adjust the headlock he was in as a Roller (as Cassys fans are thus named) delivered a last few words of drunken encouragement.
‘Avec’ stands for the cymbals, the shared kit was still stripped right down to the 5-piece basics as the boys tore into a blistering version of ‘Mike C’ like there was no tomorrow – with effortless and precise drumming from the smiling, low-seated Greg holding everything together
‘Fuckoffpunkupstrollon’ urged Sav as the initial tide of madness gave way to a strong undercurrent of pure bedlam, then ; ‘Stepitupstepitupstepitupandstepitoutnowww’ as the tune reached the 100mph blitzed-out bassline break in seconds flat. The FX heavy telecaster sound was constantly awash with delicious and dirty feedback as another effortlessly fine set from these lads emerged.
Their new material is rowdy and insane ‘English Gent’ stomped into being off the back of an angry, sulky riff, building up in 4/4time to arrive at a lairy, shoutalong chorus. They have retained the elements that sound like an incitement to riot, and stage front, the sounds weren’t lost on the beer-spilling, line-dancing half-scrum of alcohol-giddy revellers, who claimed a mic stand, forcing Mike the bassist to shrink frequently from the grabbing hands that made for his guitar almost constantly.
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Roll-up in hand, in between the smoke exhalations, shouts from Sav urged those present to ‘Smoke up people!’. Dropping the mic on the floor instead of returning it to its stand was another recurrent behaviour from the frantic frontman as the atmosphere quickly hit fever pitch and beyond.
The old live favourites still signalled chaos, especially the laughably simplistic but 100% effective ‘Drinkin’, whilst the relatively new ‘No Worries’ bristled with adolescent abandon. ‘Copsa Mica’ was another hit. Countersunk, almost watermarked into the mayhem, the demented feedback could barely contain the 100mph cha-cha. Audience reactions saw eyes rolled into the backs of heads, beer spilled and screams prevail as the appreciation even raised eyebrows and drew smiles from the shadows.
Finishing with a thundering, cacophonic ‘Riot In St Peter’s Square’, complete with Sav’s slurred rhyme: “Fookin’ Barbies every-wherrrr-rre”, the machine gun fire from the guitar signalled another free-for-all climax to another barnstorming set. This was another victorious battle in the all-out war against complacency.
Upstairs, TVMR were the main attraction, and as they proceeded to get into their groove, they rounded things off in fine style.
TVMR is short for The Virgo Mechanically Replayed (!). Numbers like ‘Know What I Mean’ and ‘Bowie In The Bronx’ rocked out semi-conscious with a hazy half-step tempo that had odd hypnotic qualities to pull you in – this is rock n’ roll, but submerged deep under a raw downbeat electronic pulse. As the synthesiser funk and bouncy guitars went head to head during a succession of slow-building but insistent jams, Ally Cameron’s faraway vocals sleazed out of the PA as his eyes gently goaded in spite of the disco-light blindness onstage.
Broken beats and static disarray spelled quality, and herein lies the twist in the tale. Also casting his long shadow on the back wall was Hacienda legend JOHN DASILVA, who manned guitars and bass alongside Chris Hughes – Hughes played the keys as the source of the trance - DaSilva’s pre-programmed sounds - bubbled and stuttered away.
The subject matter of their tunes betrays a legendary vision and a big imagination, delivered tonight with an understated swagger.
“Getting lost like Ziggy in Memphis” repeated Cameron in full rock n’roll mode as the atonal sounds blended with a futuristic pulse around him. The sound bounced awkwardly off the walls and spun into the ceiling, but it seemed to help rather than hinder their cause by adding depth to the cacophony. It certainly didn’t bother them none.
It was a class end to a fast-paced night where the two stages meant a constant flow of music to absorb. From the hypnotic to the chaotic, those who weren’t swept away would have found plenty to keep them interested.
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