This is by no means my first Kyte experience: having seen them supporting numerous bands, and also gone to see several bands I like play on the same bill or even supporting them, I’ve never explicitly gone to a gig in order to see Kyte. Having found them somewhat disappointing, even turgid, I can’t say I’m a fan. But I’m always willing to give the benefit of the doubt, and the lineup for tonight looked promising.
And I’m pleased to report that the promise was fulfilled. Bill-proppers Apache Beat were bursting with post-punk energy and built their spiky sound over a barrage of solid tribal drumming. With hints of Siouxsie and Skeletal Family - as much on account of singer Ilirjana Alushaj’s stage moves as the sound - the songs were short and punchy and while the bass sound was, on occasional a little clumsy, particularly in the closing number, it was often dense and overdriven, filling the bottom end of the sonic spectrum with a phat noise that resembled tearing cardboard. It’s a sound I like, and I dig.
Pinpointing why I can’t get into Kyte has been something I’ve wrestled with for a while. Perhaps it was just that I found their material a bit one-pace, a bit too close to the bands they clearly draw inspiration from - most obviously Sigur Ros and Death Cab for Cutie - and front man Nick Moon’s frequent looks of wide-eyed wonderment a bit contrived, too cute and little-boy lost for my tastes. Ultimately, I wanted to see them grow some balls. Tonight, they came close. The opener was plagued by persistent bass feedback, and the momentarily slipped their precision and showed a more muscular side. Moon grappled the mic stand, looking like he meant business, and delivered his trademark breathy vocals with more urgency than on the occasions I’ve witnessed before. After a while, the lack of variety began to prove wearisome, and while the rhythm section was - as ever - solid, I found the performance still a little sterile. The crescendos were exectuted with a frustrating degree of precision and control, and I foind myself wishing for them to really let rip with some blistering noise. Nevertheless, with a shorter set and a crowd that perhaps needed more convincing than others, they played with more attack than on the previous occasions I’ve seen them. What’s more, there’s no denying their technical abilities, and it’s easy to see why, after a lengthy spell of near-relentless gigging, that they’ve built themselves a considerable fanbase.
|
School of Seven Bells are an unusual beast: poppy, melodic, accented dual female vocals atop a pulsating electro beat, complemented by guitar work that gives a depth and solidity that makes for an exhilarating experience. It’s a curious hybrid amalgamation of forms, and any comparisons would be unrepresentative of the way these different elements combine to form something that really is different from anything else I’m aware of that’s around at the moment. Benjamin Curtis - formerly of Secret Machines - is positioned centre stage between the singing sisters, and from this position reams off layers of sound that range from subtle textures to shimmering walls of noise, fashioning audio dreamscapes of all shades and hues. It’s shoegaze, but not as we know it. Some of the snare sounds are thoroughly old-school, TR 606 whip cracks, countered by bass notes that register somewhere around the pelvis. A groove sensation, and no mistake.
|
