Index for Working Musik

@ The Garage, London

Words and pics by Captain Stavros

It’s the evening before St Patrick’s Day and we’re propped up (being crushed to death by the crowds) against a bar in Highbury, Islington attempting to order a pint of Guinness.  ‘Good evening, may I have a pint of Guinness please?’  ‘A what?’, a barmaid screws up her face like she’s bitten into a lemon, better yet, smelled milk that’s gone off.  We could just as well have ordered a Mountain Dew or a goat hoof, by their reaction.  We, instead, just point to the tap, in hopes the message will permeate the membrane.  It may not be polite to point but it works.  A quarter of an hour later, my pint arrives, which has given us ample time to take in our surroundings of football supporters, of one team or another.  Which is exactly enough time to be thankful that we’re supporting a gig instead of the football.  Enter, Index for Working Musik.

An elemental gathering of musicians, mainly elements of already existing bands (Proper Ornaments/TOY), found their way to us around 2022 with the release of ‘Wagner’, a single off their upcoming album which, coincidentally, turned out to be their set opener on this evening.  We’re already fans of label mates White Flowers, which share similar musical and visual aesthetics so, naturally, we were intrigued.  Scrolling through the press blurb re-affirmed what we already knew to be true, there was something profoundly unsettling and weird about these lot, just the way we like it.

Index For Working Musik was born on an evening in late 2019 amidst the discovery of a collection of faded black and white photocopies that had been marinating on the floor of a urine-alley in the Gothic Quarter of Barcelona.  An assortment of sacred and profane imagery was crumpled amongst an essay on early Christian hermits, entitled Men Possessed by God, the meaning of which was enticingly vague.

And so, with that we left the pub and crossed the street entering into the windowless void that is The Garage.  The set opener, ‘Wagner’, carries with it an intense loneliness.  It’s a tune with nowhere to go and no reason to get there, existing purely for its own entertainment.  It’s a storm with the air let out of its tyres, half in tune with the other half of the seamless noise being carried along by a crisp percussion and methodical bassline.  So far, so good.  ‘Railroad Bulls’ lumbers through the station with the help of a passing slow pulled bow across the bass, right on time as usual.  The double bass really shines through on this song and proves itself more than just a Proper Ornament on stage.

As enjoyable as the set is thus far, it’s sort-of like everything before the four-minute mark of Velvet Underground’s ‘Heroin’.  That, however, was all about to change with ‘Ambiguous Fauna’.  Hearing the song unfold whilst simultaneously watching it is nearly indescribable, like a fly fruitlessly thrashing against a window trying to escape.  Although inevitably it’ll never manage to evade the glass, you’re still mesmerised by its frantic motions wondering what’ll happen next; set me free!  The entirety of the song was an anxiety-ridden demonstration of how to perfectly incorrectly tune a guitar, each string being over-tuned one pluck and turn at a time.  This is not a criticism, this, the set’s zenith, was exactly where we began to re-engage with the performance.  ‘Isis Beatles’, a track that began with reel-to reel-loops of Afghan music compete with the found-sound overlays of voices recorded at the queue of the pharmacy and drum machines borrowed from Spanish heroes, channeling both far-off climes and snippets from a closer reality.  A bold statement for a mid-set number, the double bass playing throughout was like watching throats played throughout a slasher pic, slashidy slash slash, the horse hairs peeled and broke away from their taut housing.  No going back now.

Finally unshackled, the set takes off in a full upswing, cleaving its melancholy tempo with each bar of ‘Chains’ and ‘1871’.  “Isn’t it fun?”, Max sings to his audience through an emotionless face that’s 90% razor edged cheekbones with sullen cheeks to match.  Hey, Argentina, what are you putting in the water over there?  Although both songs are excellent, our head favors nodding back and forth.  We slap our thighs and our feet restlessly tapping out the rhythm to ‘Chains’.  The percussion surgically manages to cut through, without overwhelming and stealing the show on this one.  We felt it in our shins, and still don’t know how that magic happened but we ain’t questioning nuthin’.  It was the cough in a pregnant silence.  The set finale, ‘Habinita’, would call again upon that sorcery of percussion, along with rest of the band, throwing-off their reins.  This was the point, amongst many in the set, that our eyes were drawn to Natalie Bruno’s Thunderbird bass and smokey vocals which combined with Max’s harmonized into a velvety pool of aural bliss.

It took at least a full five seconds for us to realise the band had left the stage and for reality to set back in.  The fact that the gig was over.  Dragging The Needlework For The Kids At Uphole as an album has a great depth of nuanced tones between the lead and rhythm guitars which seamlessly hands off to each of the other instruments, like the double bass and drums but this, along with almost every other subtlety, is washed away live.  Hushed lyrics, we’re afraid, turned to muffled cotton-ball stuffed mouthed puffs more instep with a cow’s moo.  That’s about the most amount of criticism we can give to the performance which is more of a technical kink to be resolved than a lack of talent, of which there is plenty.  We’d really recommend combing through the album, which is fantastic and switched us on to the gang in the first place, to let your mind fill in the gaps when watching them live.  Index for Working Musik is touring now and next playing at The Seabright Arms on March 23 in the year of our Lord two-thousand-twenty-three, you’d certainly be remiss to miss them.

Death Valley Girls

@ The Moth

Words & pics by Captain Stavros

You're travelling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind.  A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination.  That's the signpost up ahead - your next stop, The Island In The Sky winter tour, with your hosts Death Valley Girls, The MOTH Club and yours truly, Captain Stavros. 

Hailed as LA’s very own Mystic-Rock-Mainstay and fresh off the heels of their latest release, the aforementioned Island in the Sky.  A thinly veiled albeit creepier version Themyscira, a bizzarro Themyscira if you will.  Where instead of Amazonians, we’ll find Bonnie Bloomgarden giving the audience the business so hard she’ll have to lift her colonial prairie dress to her face to smear it all about, along with her deadly makeup, trying to get all the gunky sweat off her witchy mug to keep the wildest set of the year, thus far, going.

But who are these ghoulish zephyrs from parts Cal-ah-4-neye-eh?  That, in and of itself, is a tricky thought exercise.  Ever hear of The Ship of Theseus?.  Essentially, the story goes, if you swap out all or most of the original parts, is the thing still the same thing it started off as?  DVG has seen a fair bit of turnover through the years but original founding member Larry Schemel and Bonnie Bloomgarden, long-time vocalist, are still the beating heart of the band and I’d argue that, like Robocop, swapping out pesky human parts for shiny mechanically powered new ones arguably makes a thing even better than it was before.

The current roster shining down on us from the MOTH’s stage this evening was composed of:

Rikki Styxx – can you imagine if this was her name from birth?  Fated to play the drums, and boy-howdy, did she ever?  With a Cheshire cat smile throughout.  She reminded me of the way a young pyromaniac stares with intensity as the flames she’s nursing rise and consume.  Sub the flames for her sticks crashing into the snare, and you’ve got an alarmingly satisfying experience.  

Bonnie Bloomgarden – charismatic frontwoman and fallen Disney Princess who, at times, is possessed by the music itself so much so that when she bends backwards.  She could be confused for someone with a terrible case of scoliosis or a lost limbo contestant.  At one point, she broke out into a make-shift gospel whilst on the keys.  I was in stitches. 

Larry Schemel, founding member who now is more of an apparition wiggling around stage right in the shadows.  

Last but not least, Samantha Westervelt – bassist, singer, actor and Saturn Bar t-shirt wearer extraordinaire.  With “Liquor in the front, Poker in the rear” plastered across it and sporting a “Born Free” electric guitar strap.  I’d get to know her perhaps more personally than most in the audience that evening as her bass’ headstock rapped against my knuckles like a school teachers' ruler as I tried to take photos throughout the set.  Worth it.

For some reason, I’ve written ‘steam roller energy’ in my gig notes and, although those are all words I understand, they make no sense to me and probably never did.  On that tip though, much in the same vein of Ty Segall and King Gizzard and the Wizard Lizard, Death Valley Girls seemingly have all the energy in the world for putting out an album every Friday to help us make it through the weekend.  Their latest is album seven.  They’ve also pumped out eight singles/EPs in 10 years, Jiminy Jillikers!  I’ll say this about them, they do not accept the laws of thermodynamics.  They are a perpetual motion machine with no end in sight; after 10 years, they’re still ‘givn’er’, these lot are a quagmire.

Speaking of conjuring shit up, the set starts off with ‘ABRE Camino’, a methodical slowburn that sounds like a record being played backwards.  Ouija vibes man, but soon their set turns mani(a)c with ‘Street Justice’ from 2018’s Dark Rains.  At this point, the audience has been completely possesed by Bloomgarden’s signature vocals, which reach maximum hypnosis when Westervelt chimes in chorus, banshee-esque vibes.

A few songs down the road, Bloomgarden starts coming at us with a few gems between tracks; “You don't know how lucky you are to have this place. We don't have a place like this in our town.”  I dunno lady, certainly we are lucky to have The MOTH (albeit with iconic ‘All children to be off the Dance Floor by 9:30pm’ sign now missing?  How long have I been out for?) but if Bukowski, Stanton or Morrison heard this, they’d probably be spinning in their booze soaked and drug addled graves.  I could easily see them playing at The Mint in LA.  I did especially appreciate, “If you think being a man is cool, then I'm a man too”, introing 2016’s Glow In The Dark track.  Not too long after which, Bloomgarden has a back and forth with a few audience members before diving into the crowd, booths and everywhere in between.  No one was safe but I’m quite confident nobody at that point cared to be.  

They return for an encore rocking ‘Electric High’ from Street Venom, which brought the fucking house down thanks to Rikki Styxx.  I think my friend BobaDebz summed it up best with her review though, “I’m trying to recall exactly what I said because I genuinely want to help you. I remember mentioning about the drummer her Cheshire Cat grin, how insane the last song was and how that made me cream my pants. I honestly can’t recall anything else other than how totally fucking awesome she was.” - BobaDebz

Death Valley Girls are currently touring Europe, wouldn’t miss ‘em if I were you.

Italia 90

@ The 100 Club, London

Words and pics by Captain Stavros

I’ll never associate the idea of heading down Oxford High Street and having a good time but, like the ubiquitous free-living organism Bacteria, even the polished facade of the (failing) Great British High Street has a few spit-and-sawdust sanctums left in and around it’s crevices.  This fine evening after a pit stop at one said establishment, Bradley’s Spanish Bar to wet our beak, we head to another The 100 Club to catch Italia 90’s album release party for their latest cut, Living Human Treasure.

Our introduction to this raw and unapologetically political outfit months back was two-fold and quite by chance.  While at the Oslo covering label mate Flossing’s gig, which was an absolute banger by the way, we were introduced to Renton lookalike, Alfie; Italia 90’s frontman.  A serendipitous happenstance, as earlier in the day we were enjoying the new single, ‘Leisure Activities’.  Soft spoken, in contrast with his on-stage persona, his attention’s split between a World Cup match on the big-screen and receiving my compliments on his work.  Carelessly, he invites me to their album release which we slightly, only slightly, accept a tad bit over zealously.  This just about brings us up to speed, which is to say descending the stairs of The 100 Club.

We make our entrance to Alfie being chastised for chatting during the support act’s set.  Press Release’s drummer, Liv Wynter is having none of it.  For a notoriously hard to search band, they’re quite outspoken and, upon reflection, perhaps one to keep an eye on.  They’re followed by Scrounge, a post-punk duo that reminds us of an early Blood Red Shoes.  With the stage amply warmed up and with a full house an extended cabinet of seven band members (strings/keys/saxs and guest singers) march on stage to a Roman Gladiator ballad blasting through the house speakers. Uh-oh.

Although named Italia 90, perhaps they’d consider rebranding to Bosnia in the 90s because as ‘Cut’, the first track of the set and album, kicks off I’m catching a fuckload of shrapnel in the way of elbows and knees across my frail and withering frame.  The crowd has completely kicked off, literally.  The tune lurks like a dog pressed against a wall.  Its shadow spreads across the crowd as whoops and hollers ripple back to the stage.  The album is played in consecutive fashion with ‘Leisure Activities’ continuing to stoke the flames, I may add, with zero consideration for the absolute battering yours truly is receiving.

‘Magdalene’ is next and comes smashing over us much like the fists are descending upon my skull by windmilling maniacs in the pit.  A George Costanza lookalike to the right of me, after seeing me smashed and splattered across the stage, assures me he’s “got me” as I brace myself against a PA back into a standing position, but soon he too is also swallowed up by the relentless revellers.  Moments later, a redhead in a cocktail dress a full foot taller than me in fingerless leather gloves apologizes for elbowing me in the neck.  She smiles with a thin stream of blood reflecting back at me from between her teeth, the early stages of gum disease or yours truly falling in love?  Will I live long enough to find out? ‘Competition (Cawm Paw Tishun)’, an oldie but a goodie, is a longer tune which thankfully pacifies the crowd just long enough for me to catch my breath and fashion a tourniquet for my arm out of my backpack’s strap.

After taking a knee for a moment, Italia 90 roars back to full steam with ‘New Factory’, a tune like a car out of control on a motorway weaving between lanes.  The crowd’s jubilant response is a single undulating wave smashing against the rocks, or in this case myself once more being dashed across the stage.  A boot has now found its way across my face from a sole stage diver, none other than the George Costanza lookalike who’d promised to retain my virtue.  Up next, ‘The Mumsent Mambo’ introduces guest singer Sam the Plumber, who spits a few bars.  I'd later be introduced to Sam by way of more elbows and shoulders in the pit as he shared the mic next to me with Alfie off stage.  Sam’s hot, steamy breath splashed back at me, you wouldn’t have thought it, but it was a genuinely pleasant experience. Smelt of cloves, quite refreshing.

The last few memorable tracks to follow were ‘Golgotha’, one that Alfie acknowledges as a commercial weak moment but one that he and the band are actually quite proud of.  I agree, maybe not commercially viable, but great lyrics.  Speaking of lyrics, ‘Does He Dream?’, is perhaps my favourite of the set so far; “Intervenes stimulation/ production line titillation./ Mandatory consumption/ responses required”.  ‘Tales from Beyond’ was the last song we heard as we exited the pit, there would be one more, ‘Harmony’, followed by two more in the encore.  ‘Tales from Beyond’ had great flow and energy, not to mention this song was where Alfie’s talent as a vocalist really blasted through.  For us, this is where the set (should’ve) ended.

Speaking to Stoya, The 100’s bar manager, between sets about why so many cups were hanging across nearly all the taps on the bar he confided in us.  “I hate advertising something I can’t sell, if you see it, we want to sell it, but we just can’t get the product.  We’ve been struggling for weeks”.  The product in this case being beer.  This reminded us of the precarious position music found itself in not too long ago between 2020-2022.  Being able to get music but not at a venue, it just isn’t the same.  Italia 90’s show left us weak in the knees, in more ways than one, reminding us not take these experiences for granted and that the pain is temporary (in most cases) so get out there.  Italia 90s album is out now and they’ll be swinging by London way again soon, wouldn’t miss either if we were you.

Skinny Pelembe

@ The Social, London

Words & pics by Captain Stavros

Here’s the Skinny, sometimes bad feels good.  We’re watching a captivating set rounded off with ‘No Blacks, No Dogs, No Irish’, a track tilting the spotlight in the direction of xenophobic ideologies.  So, why is my head carelessly bopping back and forth to the beat?  Why isn’t anyone around us cringing?  Simple, everyone here understands music is confrontational.  Perhaps that’s an over simplification.  It takes a bit of finesse to pull this off as seamlessly, and as enjoyably, as we’re witnessing here tonight but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.  Let’s dive deeper into Skinny Pelembe, what he’s saying and how he’s saying it but, before we do, let’s rewind a few days.

As usual we find our inbox which is, more often than we’d like to admit, neglected and overflowing.  It’s bursting at the seams with a multitude of great new Artists and Singles looking for exposure, a break, or just a reminder that they exist.  Shuffling through the heap, something tugs us towards a new one, ‘Oh, Silly George’ by a yet unheard of (only by us because apparently there’s much critical acclaim regarding) Skinny Pelembe, by day known as Doya Beardmore.

Doya’s new single, and set, has got us by the ear from the get-go but by the third song’s intro, ‘4 Year Curse’, he has my respect.  “Can we get the pleasantries out of the way”, as he begins to introduce the band, “cause I’m not into that. Let’s imagine we’re at the end of the gig thinking, that was mega!”.  Spoiler, it would be and it was.  A refreshingly unapologetic, let’s cut the shit, style that’s a welcome break from the usual beg-pardon of the daily English standard is still as charmingly disarming as it is self-reflexive.  What a breath of fresh air.

It’s quite difficult for us to pin down what’s going on onstage, not because we’re in our cups, this set has a children of Hamelin vibe to it.  The cymbals tickle our eardrums with their loosey-goosey, jazzy vibes, handing over to a Roland/Moog synths for further tenderizing.  They relentlessly rattle our skeletons within their fleshy cages.  Finally, the Maestro compels us with his elliptical forms of language, frantic genre defiant with elements of hip-hop, psych-rock, rap, and spoken word, wrapped in wavy surfy/cowboy twangy guitar (a-la-Tarantino) tunes right in to our frequencies.

The set was a stand-alone winner, the first of the year (sorry Peel Dream Magazine), but why?  Well, for starters there was a sort of restrained madness to it, like Cujo wearing a muzzle.  Frothy blind rage only tentatively being restrained behind a thin leather strap, in this case a guitar strap.  The same restraint, to be fair, was written all over Doya’s face when his music hit the mark sending woops and howls throughout the audience, keeping the well-deserved smirk on his face from peeling away into a full-blown smile.

Final thoughts?  A mind and music with the complexity and elegance of fractals.  As unimaginable as it was for my mind to fathom its conception, it's still 100% approachable and docks effortlessly and automatically.  Beware, as enjoyable and easy to move to as it is to listen to, a darkness lurks just beneath the tunes that is sorrowful when you pull the music from the lyrics, buried just below the surface like the pistachio filling in a cannoli.  How then, do such hard and bitter truths that form the narrative of this work get swallowed up along with moral obligations to our fellow human by an audience, in a word?  Craftsmanship.  Wavy tunes let the subconscious do the heavy lifting.  I’ll leave you with Doya’s final words of the night to his audience.  The feeling of the first album is all shiny and fun, but it’s the second album that reminds people that they should still give a fuck.