"On I'm a modern man!" offers the lead of Performance, to which the only possible retort is "No, you're really not!" I'd heard the '80s were back but I guess I must have been in denial, such a shock was it to see this schlock on stage. A louche Mr Darcy smokes an off-hand cigarette behind korg and keys, a female pirate mans the other synth rack, while a stick thin girl apparently attempting to resurrect heroin chic and guillotined fringes plays a ridiculously thin guitar with no head. Sorry to dwell on their look, but it is very much part of the Performance. They kick out throbbing, ticking, bounding techno beats that chk, chk, chk along Nightrider style, as a stupidly tall, be-suited front man stamps himself into a frantic fury. "It a sort of low budget version of The Faint," says the man next to me, adding, upon spying the notebook, "you can quote me on that!" Well, I wouldn't be that harsh. They've really got a vibe, and the electricity of the singer makes up for the anodyne studied indifference of the rest. The music is complex, though a little samey, but becomes increasingly enjoyable. Mozart keys send the vocalist into convulsions, before the Korg sends bass vibes into contortions and suddenly I'm fighting to keep my fist on the paper and out of the air. "Live a little! Die a little! Live a little! Die a little!" Chant, and potentially chart, tastic!
Piney Gir, straight out Kansas and into Oz. My she's a coy little minx, with her Marilyn mannerisms, Doris Day dress and ruby fuck-me slippers. She rolls her shoulders, teases the crowd, and pouts at the soundman. "When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother what will I be?" she begins, before kicking in on the bright red synth slung over her (very pretty) shoulders and declaring: "When I grow up I want to be anyone but me/ When I grow up I want to be President" sucking and biting at the mike, slapping and spanking the synth. It's a highly charged performance, the sexually aware woman masquerading as the innocent child, epitomised by the moment she pulls out a recorder and rocks along to the a backing of grimy 12 bar blues, as if to say "Look (sugar) daddy! Look what I can do!" The image is compounded as an oriental beat and melodica accompany a neat spin on a traditional playground taunt: "K.I.S.S.I.N.G./That's what people do in trees!" It's a perfect act, and I'd love to see her face in the dressing room afterwards - does she break into a smile as it to say "Suckers! They buy it every time!" before pulling on her jeans and jumper? She's a great performer, but are the songs as good? Do we care? Every single bloke except me seemed to be utterly at her mercy - I must remember to check my sexuality when I get home.
Actually scrap that, 'cos The Soho Dolls just walked on and suddenly their lead singer's nipples are mere inches from my eyes, dark and hard and very obviously there through a tight white slip. Not for the first time this evening I curse myself for leaving my camera battery on the charger. They introduce themselves by launching into a track that begins "Soho is where they go for it", breathily intoned over seductive, opium-poppy beats. Despite this the sound isn't as sleazy their name suggests, though perhaps it would be if they were louder, and there is a nirvana groove to the guitars and vocals. "Give me your attention, I'll show you all the pleasures of Soho" which already seem to be on view and the singer ruffles her Farah Fawcett hair, writhes on the floor and leans over a rapt audience. The beats begin to get dirtier, and I realise that they are the opposite of Piney Gir and to me more seductive for it as theirs is less obviously an act. I'll be straight though: I'd like the them less if there weren't three attractive girls in the band, and they are gonna to have to be careful not to rely on that too much. Already a couple of rows back some uncaptivated attendees are arguing over the gender of the guitarist (a bloke, I assure you). Occasionally the lyrics reach the pace of a pop-rap and I feel she is stretching herself too far, then I realise she reminds me of Rachael Stevens. Funkier bass-lines towards the end and some proper sleaze at last as a real swinger of a final number sees the bassist holding her microphone phallus like to the singer crotch. "You can call me X, You can call me Y, You can call me Z, You can come and try."
It may not be as insistent as Performance, or as polished as Piney Gir, but somehow I like The Soho Dolls, because I feel they mean it more.
article by: Adrian KK Hicks
published: 17/01/2005 12:09
FUTURE GIGS
sorry, we currently have no gigs listed for this act.