Melviß Tibet lives upstairs in my house but today she was on the floor in the Korsan bar playing a guitar through some cymbals with a friend, Helen (maybe not called Helen but I just don't know). Eking subtle twangs from their unorthodoxly amplified instruments, they soundtracked a dingy mindset under the roar of rude conversation at the bar, to a select audience of three hooded cult members sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the left amp. I watched from the side and slightly feared for their wellbeing. But in the end, nobody was hurt.
Mr Brick was up next, a one man team machine fueled on caffeine and nicotine. He sang well, played the guitar badly and sporadically made rackets the likes of which would have Roger Federer saying 'there's been a misunderstanding, this is a different type of racket to the one I need. Look it up'. I doubt Monsieur Bricko cares though, as by the end of his set he's off in Morocco charming snakes. The snake was all GET A HAIRCUT. And Brick is like thanks very much, good night.
Then who was it? Oh yeah Real Feel. They were essentially boring with short flashes of hmmmm maybe and extended sections of naah. Very school. Miklos of super-psycho-hyper-surfers Agaskodo Teliverek joined them afterwards for a birthday jam session which came out more like chutney but at least it had some taste to it, even if it was a bit onions.
Sputniko! was a lot easier on the eye than the ear but then garish bleeping jumping up and down ffwding j-pop isn't my thing. I think her equipment ate too many Smarties.
Then I saw Le Couteau Jaune dressing up like heroin parrots. I didn't watch them play but I've seen them before and that's why. Very, very, Shoreditch.