Back on the smack. Metaphorically of course, it feels like I am back on the smack. That anticipation of the high to be gained from finding a source of primo music. Said music lifting me to a higher plane. The almighty crash as reality once more intrudes at the end of the evening. Then the terrible wait until that you can get some musical methadone when you get home. That’s the rollercoaster life of a reviewer.
And so it was that that I once more ventured into the damp, dark basement of the 13th Note in Glasgow. The mission objective this time was Terror Bird and the collateral damage would soon be the Golden Grrrls and Tangles.
Tangles - or perhaps some other name as the inter song banter indicated that the band couldn’t agree on what to call themselves – had an interesting approach to performance in that it appeared that a remarkable degree of randomness had been applied to the start, middle and end of all their songs. An artistic decision, no doubt, but the untutored ear might assume that this was the kind of band that had spent more time practising looking serious than practising their music.
There was a degree of untidiness to the Golden Grrrls as well but not to a criminally negligent level. Sounding like the recalcitrant children of the Pastels and the Vaselines, this trio added a tablespoonful of charm to spice up their indie boy meets indie girl guitar pop confection. If you heard them then you would have no doubt that they were from this part of the world which, despite the sadly sparse attendance, does normally seem to suit people from this part of the world.
The faithfully duly hugged the stage as Terror Bird - touring to promote their album Human Culture - set about performing the kind of music that seemed designed for dimly lit basements. Being only two up and still nearly outnumbering the crowd didn’t affect Terror Bird’s impact as Nikki Never’s voice punched holes through pain and confusion over swirled around synths and piledriver drums. Like I said, Terror Bird is the ideal band for basements and it was a shame that more people weren’t there to witness the evidence.
Back at street level, it was raining (again). Busy on their iPhones, the Glasgow indie boys with their floppy fringes and skinny jeans – with a remarkable number being four or five dozen pies past physical perfection – walked the wet pavements in search of their next important text message. If only they had been in that basement.