I must start this review with a confession. No, I wasn’t the second gunman on the grassy knoll and it wasn’t me who shot Mr Burns; I must confess I’m not actually a music reviewer. I know this might shock you more than the time you found those funny leather straps in your uncle’s sock drawer that he didn’t want to explain at the dinner table, and I know I’ve technically published maybe thirty or so reviews of acts but it doesn’t mean I’m a proper reviewer.
Just like hanging a bauble off my nose doesn’t make me a Christmas tree or you setting up a facebook page with YOUR NAME followed by the word Photography make you a professional photographer. You got a DSLR for Christmas to do GCSE photography, you’re not David Bailey. Unless of course you are David Bailey, then ignore the above. Hi David.
TRASH are from Chesterfield. TRASH play indie music with reverb so wet it gets lads hurriedly scrambling around for life rafts because they think they are drowning. It’s melodic, it’s dreamy – or maybe that was because of lithium I huffed to dull the cheap speed one of the RedFaces gave me – but most importantly, it sounds good.
Their EP opener ‘Alone’, a coming of age piece clearly building on heavy themes of isolation, anxiety and love builds an epic melancholic crescendo, carefully accented by the harmonic driving wails of Evan’s lead guitar…and this is why I don’t write serious reviews or like reading serious reviews. Without exception amateur reviews never fail to be unforgivingly contrived, full to the brim with cliché, infested with unqualified hyperbole and just generally sound really naff.
If I had to describe TRASH as a confectionary they would be a trifle. I honestly spent a while deciding this. Much like a TRIFLE, TRASH are British. Their music has thick layers, decidedly different but complementary. I guess the sweet spangly overtones of the bands strat-heavy sound are – for the sole sake of furthering the analogy – the fruit and the solid back beats and rhythm are as sturdy, manageable and welcoming as (your mum lol, no) a sponge cake. Also, I reckon my nan would like TRASH as she goes mad for trifle.
Personally I don’t go in for sweets all that much, I’m more of a savoury fella. That being said, I am partial to a salted toffee cheesecake with creme fraiche if I’m offered, but it’s really hard to find a decent place for it. The quality of restaurants in Sheffield has stepped down massively in recent years and I’m not going to anywhere with pictures on the menu so don’t even start.
I’m not big into cults. I once joined a cult, I turned up on a Sunday and they started telling me a story about feeding 5000 people on a limited budget, I thought to myself, “smells a bit fishy”. I told that joke before introducing them and everyone laughed because I’m really funny and charismatic after a few beers (contrary to what that newspaper article said).
Forever Cult are grunge-y, so grunge-y that I got my mum to drop off a different t-shirt for me because my GRUNGE IS DEAD top started looking redundant, plus it didn’t fit me all that well because I’ve started going to the gym again and I’m getting pretty big now. I go to the Virgin Active at Broadfield because it prices the wrong type of people out so I don’t have to look at tribal tattoos and flat peak caps while I’m trying to pull 75kg on the lat machine.
Anyways, back to the band: Forever Cult are a three piece with a sound so big you’d need a few of those metre long rulers maths teachers have to measure it, plus you’d probably have to ask them how you could convert metres to decibels or whatever. Pythagoras would probably be involved somewhere, maths teachers have been dining off that bastard for years.
If I had to describe Forever Cult as a bag of Tyrells crisps, they would be the Sea Salt and Cracked Black Pepper flavour: a strong recognisable taste, with enough tweaking to make it a solid flavour in it’s own right. They are crunchy, they come tightly packed (in this case it wasn’t a grey packet but a Corsa driven by their mate) and you’d recommend them to a friend of discerning taste.
Nobody thought the RedFaces would play so well considering how much they drank but they absolutely smashed it. Sure, there was a few times when Harry started ranting about how stupid Miles Kane’s haircut is and how he’s not even about the music anymore. At one point Isaac started a fist-fight with one of the regulars about whether Stephen Moffat is a genuis. Charlie and Andrew switched instruments for a bit just for the crack… All of which – of course – didn’t happen, but it could have; it was one of those nights.
It was a brisk night, Chesterfield had absolutely destroyed Sheffield United a few hours earlier and all the age-appropriate people (me and my mate Rob) had been drinking Carling as though it tasted better than Carling, but hey it’s real cheap there and I didn’t have work in the morning. The next day I ended up going to China Dragon for food then watching Denzel Washington’s new film The Equalizer, which isn’t about music production unlike it’s namesake might infer.
As always the RedFaces were on point with their cheeky rock’n’roll numbers which immediately gathered a crowd in front of them. It was quite a mixed bag of people, the last time I had a crowd of people that big huddled around me I was being treated by paramedics for a head injury on West Street.
If I had to – at gunpoint – compare the RedFaces to a classic TV show I used to watch growing up, it would be My Parents Are Aliens: it was fun, original, well presented, well received, appropriate for all ages and the characters were sharply dressed. For those of you either too old or too young to have watched this show, the premise is simple. Three orphaned children are adopted by an alien couple and they get into all types of hilarious wacky dramas that requires the use of their alien technology or alien powers (nine times out of ten it was shapeshifting) to resolve.