Dry Cleaning played The Corner Hotel on December 13...
As someone’s soundcheck went rather late a line stretched round the corner in the fresh December air. “What’s the world coming to?” was murmured nearby, and I suppose the answer is a place where patience is no longer a virtue, as I for one felt that all patience had been exhausted counting the days to getting the dry cleaning done. Surely enough, the first arrivals at the merch stand surreptitiously whisper, “Ask them for the washing directions”.
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The gags flowing into spin cycle, we await the appearance of a new entrant in the hard-to-Google band stakes. First up though, was Girl and Girl, another band heading in interesting directions and a good get for the promoter. With much of the crowd still clamouring to enter they set about proving high slung guitars are back in vogue. They alternated between a psych jangle fraternal to some from the 80s British Isles (mayhaps they would look Pretty In Pink), and pummelling rockers that my partner astutely suggested nodded to ‘Youth and Young Manhood’ (Kings of Leon). Far from a derivative splash however, the declamatory plaintiveness of Kai James’ vocals hit home, of another time and perfectly content in this moment. The reverb said peak Robert Smith or Ian Curtis, the emotion and driving rhythms The Modern Lovers and The Gun Club. It was a glorious potpourri of vague allusions basking in its own distorted, reverb-dripping sunshine. In the annals of surprising supports I had to cast my mind back to the SoHo Mercury Lounge in ’11 when some random art-rockers from Indiana blew up the headliner leaving me wondering where Hoosiers learned Rowland S Howard licks. Reminiscence aside, Girl and Girl are an Aussie band to watch closely, and their occasional Replacements-esque thrash literally, if obtusely, left me wondering if I had put the bins out* circa 1981 (see ‘Sorry Ma, I Forgot To Take Out The Trash’). Girl and Girl really conjure up a plethora of intriguing musical homilies.
When the Corner’s red curtains drew tight one had to ponder if there would be a more exhibitional surprise component to Dry Cleaning’s performance than expected, perhaps a lost inflatable turtle that would rise slowly before being thwarted by the ceiling. Yet when said curtains gradually parted we were greeted with an entirely retro exposition of stage lighting, deliciously muted, none of the dancing rave lasers present for Saturday’s Corner show. “Things are shit but they’re gonna be… okay” (Kwenchy Kups) is without doubt an exemplary opening manifesto, rusty and muffled it may have been, but a fundamentally adorable song. Chasing with the unassuming and hilarious Gary Ashby showed Dry Cleaning were not inclined to keep their powder dry with Tom Dowse (guitar) firing off some Marr-esque accomplished understatement. Curiously the audience, like Gary, were stuck on their back until the muskets blew up Scratchcard Lanyard. “A woman in aviators firing a bazooka” could indeed become lodged forevermore in one’s mind’s eye after this. It was also where I grasped the contrast between Shaw’s vocals and her compatriots, and where their Sabbath love became apparent; Dowse and Lewis Maynard (bass), for lack of a better word, shredding, and Dowse navigating the frets evocatively, pungently even. Sweet Leaf indeed.
Stick Up For Me, from one of their rough and ready EPs, ’Boundary Road Snacks and Drinks’, has head-banging bass and a huge guitar hook before the band plods somewhat, au naturel for this beastly concern, with Her Hippo. “Oh well well”. And where they had the courtesy of John Parish in their most recent studio sorties, there was no such grace provided at the, shall we say, acoustically diverse Corner Hotel. It was hard not to want for a little more definition in the lower register (or indeed all) of Florence’s voice; poignance lost, a sad augury. An instrumental freak out further clarifies their allegiances, like butter or like soup is the question. Unable to turn the music up in the headphones, we brush the dirt off our shoulders for the dense, impenetrable, Lynchian Double Bummer of Hot Penny Day, plangent fuzz and mellow echo reverberating.
With the roiling acoustics placing the delicacy of Shaw’s lyrical technique aside, this leaves songs leaning on “moments”; Stumpwork’s “doo do do doo doo”, a rare singing ellipsis, hovers over the song like cheese over nachos, with “Chemical Brothers / Fatboy Slims / peach nut” more mission statement, a corn chip stridently pointing skyward through the glut of melted dairy. No Decent Shoes For Rain is moreso cheese congealed, but does suggest the mid-set lull is rebounding, a lonely picked guitar echo interlude, wrapped in plastic and floating in a silent pond catching the ear; the next track’s lonely sheen embellishing the Laura Palmer vibe. They had the red curtains, but no chequered tiles or diminutive folk speaking backwards.
With Dry Cleaning rediscovering their forward momentum (rocking…), the realisation dawns on some unfortunates that we had missed our cue for the urinal/stall hover/bar. As Shaw draws a dinky melodica from her lucky dip for a wee dirge I hear a murmur. While the throwback incandescence has kept eyes on the performance and away from distractions, the incessant blinding flashing of house spotties between songs is starting to grate, out of character with the vibe that has been set. It’s like a high voltage version of headlights winking at a desolate meeting outside Albuquerque to break bad, the retinal surprise when you trip the motion sensor approaching grandpa’s shed.
We escape the Alcatraz spotlights for a grinding, insistent kaleidoscopic freak out, what I think is John Wick but can’t be sure, and Eurydice disappear stage right. Encore chants are unnecessary but obligatory, and the returning band offers a rejoinder reminiscent of Sonic Youth live circa ‘A Thousand Leaves’, all driving noise chords and dissonance (Tony Speaks!). Of all the unlikely eventuations, drummer Nick Buxton grabs a saxophone for the sanguine poignance and firm melodies of Anna Calls From The Arctic. Shaw asks, “Should I propose friendship?”, I think we’re past that point already Florence.
*Note: Contrary to my earlier Paul Westerberg concerns, I had indeed put the bins out.
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