Dan Deacon @ White Heat (Madame Jojo's), August 29. Having yawned through yet another lacklustre set of tired, annoyingly chirpy indie from the Video Nasties, and having progged-out to the large yet spiky sounds of Late Of the Pier, most of the crowd attending White Heat on Tuesday were outside, sitting on the kurb on Brewer Street, enjoying a cigarette. This was when Keith (manager of the aforementioned bands, hero to the suburban scene kids, an the much revered founder of the Wayoutwest night, which hosted, among others, Jamie T, The Mystery Jets, Fear of Flying, and the aforementioned Video Nasties and LOTP.) emerged from Madame Jojo's to announce, in his slightly paternal, soft-spoken yet powerful manner that 'You all have to come inside, Dan Deacon's on in a minute!' The sweaty basement room packs out, really packs out. Ambient noises come from all directions, but as far as this reviewer can remember, ambient sound doesn't generally consist of a bone-sawing electronic screech. A lurid green skull lights up in the centre of the stage, and we're off. Apocalypse rises. Chaos descends. Veering between screaming feedback and the most garbled synth sounds this side of the end of time, between the deathly plod of a singular beat and the most crowded, syncopated d n' b in existence, Dan Deacon somehow manages to control the raging jugernaut he himself has created. Leaving the crowd no rest from their wild flailing, he makes us, and himself, sweat. Alot. The skull turns to face us, our faces aflame with its lurid green strobing, and Deacon wades into the crowd. We are permitted a rest from the unrelenting march towards death, in the form of a dance off between audience members, initiated by the chant 'Harry Potter Book six smoked weed every day!', and a sing along, with the help of lyric sheets. When the full force of Deacon cracks back in, we thought we were spent. Oh no. Having brought us judgment day, Deacon now brings all-encompassing love. Chordant tones rise, there's a first and a fifth in pure sine wave, progression from cadence to cadence, somehow climbing ever upwards. He sings, we sing. Suddenly the audience jolts. They are sitting on the curb on Brewer Street again, lit cigarette in hand. Did any of that actually happen?
Reviewed by Patrick "PAT" Rolfe (As rule we at Random Access don't really hate the Video Nasties, we just accidentally insult various band members when drunk..sorry if you read this).
www.dandeacon.com
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