The Invisible begin with the beat from Can’s Hallelujah, lolloping elephantine funk originating in a castle in Cologne yet still permutating a sealed in freshness. Their brand of psychedelia has lived through the clean edged plastic eighties, airbrushed and chorus peddled, before being cidered up in the festival crust of the early nineties grebo to emerge in 2008 like Talk Talk recast as a funk band.
Only have some moody Cure-esque dream pop to give to the world, but what happens tonight is seriously marred by the derivative Russell Brandesque preening of singer Jack and guitarist Jamie in a bizarre demonstration of masculine ritual hidden behind kohl-eyes. Reminiscent of Tom Hanks reverting back to being a child walst remaining in his adult clothing at the end of Big, this is an act, and it is all the more noticeable in contrast to the no-fuss business of the decent all female rhythm section.
The Sticks have the feel of a band who have just this week formed and found a great idea. In a good, good way The Sticks radiate that moment when three people fall into a communication – before professionalism irons away some of the spontaneity, fun and charm. Instrument swaps (occasionally aborted), stand up drumming and short, short songs that stink of rockabilly punk moonshine.
Like a swarming mass of KFC eating, stay at home, student accommodation stoned gamers bitten by a nebulous virus and set loose to fuck and kill on a dance floor, DJ Scotch Egg plugs in and plugs out his selection of circuit bent Gameboys, twisting hard-as-bouncer rave beats to the point of the metallic. Blendering nostalgia and exhilaration.
by Paul Hanford