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Genius is our co-pilot, but tonight we are in the hands of 7 psychopaths with a collective sonic death wish. They may be a bunch of personality by-pass musos, but it's always the quiet ones you should look out for most. And this is stomach-churningly enthralling: a mesmerising cacophany that you simply cannot drag yourself away from. What at first appears a drunken lunge into a music shop window is, on closer inspection, the considered grace and studious invention of a post-rock-jazz workshop in full effect. It is so naked, so organic, that you can almost see the cogs turning. And you just know that to be this structureless and dysfunctional will require an amazing talent. It all begins on a free-jazz saxophone, spasmodically chasing its own tail and rioting with a run-away drum pattern. Directed by a shambling guy on a CB radio handset. Then it mutates into turntable terrorism and a random, lonesome cello motif. Everything, you feel, is happening in slow-motion. Throughout, the fearsome power will focus solely on you, you will exist only in terms of that moment. Whether rising to a wall of noise or dropping on a whim to silent percussion, the effect is the same. And it just keeps on and on, the beauty in the midst of such chaos unrelenting. But with people having started walking out long before the end, whether in disgust or search for respite, we are left stunned and breathless, at the scope and sheer brilliance. That's Jackie O. Motherfucker... Steve |