@alpaca.presents
by Brandon van der Berg @vdb.brandon
WHOOP. Live Article number 18 is it? “Just call it a review Brandon.” No. Live article number 18 was really top notch. Moon Idle lead a totally immersive performance, buried in their mystical lyricism, Grack Mack and The Pack are always breath-taking and up for a good laugh on stage and Sweet Juno topped the night off with some HUGE vocals and real cathartic rage. Love it, love it, love it. Read about the night below before I spoil the whole thing. Moon Idle The intricacies of crossfaded percussion wave your attention, the lyrics soothe you with the bold witch-like breeze of Stevie Nicks and the subtle vocal roll-offs hold you in the foreboding stillness of Lana Del Rey. A consciousness over the rhythm that really drives a sense of impactful worship and wonderment banging in tandem with the guitar’s delay; the classic eeriness of a refurbished speak easy and an upsetting drift similar to a sad Billie Eilish track with the way it feels so personal and full-frontal. Whispers of rim shots crack and whip through the mix, dancing with the slap of muted strings. Their songs progress slowly and unnoticeably, you’re in this quiet faded dream and before you know it you’re deeply sunken in a rushing fall of starlight and swaying harmony, breathtakingly cinematic. A drummer with a really keen taste and ear for the right flare. The lead lines crackle and spit over the ambience and dread. Gutting, twinkling credibility for the acute façade of theatrically stringed drama that repeats, repeats, repeats. The songs are constantly toiling and meddling with tension. The constantly leading repetition means that the resolution never feels fully resolved until that final chord you are totally engulfed. Although I think that towards the end of the set, where the virtue of patience can die off, more variation with dynamics or experimentation with the density of the arrangement could really complete what was a really great set. For fans of Lana Del Rey and Fleetwood Mac. Find them on Instagram or Spotify Grack Mack and The Pack. Tropical serenity whining through the curvature of a lap steal. The drummer is a spire of hyperventilating energy and ecstatic, catchy glee. It's trendy and relatable in an “I want to forget the world exists” kind of way and it sends you into a delirium of satisfied, excitable peace. Tension collects like a sink and quirky guitar lines blind-sidingly faucet this spiral of adrenaline that over-flows and leaves behind a coating of glossed nostalgia and invaluable rush. A whirlpool of hypnotic rhythms and a rawness that weaves everything into a sort of melancholic felt. The frontwoman, easy Sunday morning denim and frayed inner-city passion. Quite often there is a charismatic shell shock you find tucked behind glinting eyes, staring down the legion of exchange basement with shy angst and the thick realness of sophisticated artistry and emotive sway. There is a sort of pushing, impulsive jolt to each of the hooks that just feels so right. As a band they never leave a second of silence to be misinterpreted between songs, the level of consistent attention to audience experience over all of the fronting is defined and carefully attentive. The band clearly read each other’s energy and lift them up accordingly, such as coaxing and teasingly interrupting the frontwoman with silly guitar slides while she tries to talk about the meaning behind a pistachio-themed song getting a really nice set of laughs from the crowd. They really lean into joking with each other on stage and it makes everything feel relaxed and comfortable so the crowd naturally join in. For fans of Pheobe Bridgers, Bombay Bicycle Club and Mt Joy. Find them on Instagram Sweet Juno The suffocating angst of The Front Bottoms, the spacious drive of The Strokes and the indie nonchalance of Cage The Elephant. The new-wave nihilism found in emotional bedrooms across the western hemisphere jumpstarted with the cathartic co-operation of loneliness and longing romance. There is a heaviness weighing down the subtle whimsicality and overbearing dread of movement and time, the frontman jolts and screams down cries into the microphone before he resumes with self-realised performative horror like he fears his own words. They put all their passion into raging crescendos and the symphonic repetition of massive emotive release. The frontman is concussive and erratic but there is an acknowledged relaxation that feels patient, considerate and familiar. Towards the end of the set, the band really put it in gear and hammer home that they’re here to let off some steam just like everyone else. Screaming into the microphone with Neutral Milk Hotel seeping out of the harrowing distortion and enthusiasm sharpening their performances. For fans of The Front Bottoms and The Strokes. Find them on Instagram or Spotify
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