Live Review: Dead Boy Robotics, Vasquez, Esperi, Enfant Bastard

The Store, Edinburgh
Sunday 27 March 2011

Lost down a blackened alleyway that opens on to Edinburgh’s Old Town, The Store is an uninviting kind of venue. Adjective-wise, words like dank and dingy often tip the tongue when trying to describe this cavernous hovel - once you’re downstairs, it's easy to see why.

Yet, behind the murderous exterior, there’s a definite pull to the place. Its numerous name changes over the years may have hindered its reputation, but it always exudes the whiff of a cultural hub; a space where shadowy creatives meet in shadowy surroundings.

As if to underscore the venue’s off-kilter ethos, tonight’s acts all bear a reputation for pursuing somewhat unconventional avenues. The roster of Dead Boy Robotics, Vasquez, Enfant Bastard and Esperi may not ring a bell with pursuers of the city’s more arable melodies, but for those of an avant-garde disposition tonight’s billing brings together an intriguing clash of sound and style under one low-lying roof.

First to the fore is Cammy Watt, AKA Enfant Bastard, who conjures up a typically untypical set. In days gone by, ‘Bastard showings were erratic affairs, with Watt prowling the stage, Gameboy clasped in hand, while a squal of bitmapped beats scarred the airwaves and the eardrums. Yet, tonight, there’s a distinct aura of calm to his movements. It’s strange - perhaps even presumptuous - to say it, but this once untameable pupil is turning into an A-grade achieving prefect.

Isolated behind an industrial effects kit, Watt weaves Nintendo bleeps between tectonic plate juddering house and sharp shooting electro-blips. While this microchip-skewering approach is never going to burn up the charts, there’s a definite lust for floor-packing melody tucked away in these infectious, bolt-loosened cuts. Sure, Watt’s rudimentary tech screw-ups still exist, but this cohesive, limb-mangling spectacle reinforces his credentials as Edinburgh’s most beguiling musical innovator.

Compared to Enfant Bastard’s head-battering fare, Esperi’s down-trodden appearance requires a little readjustment. Initially, the Glasgow trio’s whispering of strings and acoustic guitar are barely audible, drifting out as tender lullabies that droop eyelids with diazepam effect. But, once the musical toys come out – and there are A LOT of toys – a dramatic transformation unfurls. Suddenly, this is a band with purpose and aspiration. A band you can’t take your eyes off.

At times the stage resembles a pre-school crèche; bells decorate the floor, a wind pipe howls through the air, clockwork animals chirp out nursery rhymes. Visually, it’s irresistible. Musically, it’s incomparable to the pastoral folk that blew from stage five minutes before. Frontman Chris Lee-Marr is at the core of this creative resurgence, looping complex rhythms into a tightly bound tapestry that beds his wistful crow. On record, Esperi are lost to the flatness of audio formatting, but here, as they climax dramatically on a flush of drums, they’re an absolutely arresting proposition.

Local boys Vasquez are innately more basal than their stage predecessors. Tooled up with guitar, bass and drum, the instrumental trio chomp at the jugular with a series of thrashing cuts that swing between barbarous metal and hexagonal math noodles. It’s ferocious, testicle-retracting stuff that hurtles along like some sort of demented, wild-eyed coyote slavering for its prey. Yet, for all the cyclonic endeavours, there’s an occasional lack of bite to their bark as they pummel on through without fear of shifting speed. For the most part, it’s a relentless and entertaining romp, but sometimes, just sometimes, a band like Vasquez could cause bigger ripples by slowing down once in a while.

Fortunately, headliners Dead Boy Robotics (DBR) have few problems with impact. Fresh from reeling in a new member - Lady North/Dupec skinsman Paul Bannon - and with album number one on the way, the hip-slinging electroneers are finally on the cusp of fulfilling their potential. As their first showing of 2011, tonight is a first chance to get in gear and dust down the studio’s cobwebs. Instead, they choose to blow them away.

Differentiating between DBR tonight and that of two years ago accentuates the strides they’ve made. The rhythmic tautness that intermittently appeared in their once-capricious live outings, now underpins their sound, with tribal percussion rumbling through hyper-rackets like ‘As Children We Fear The Dark’ and new single ‘Ever’. So much for the ineffectual scene-band of yesteryear. DBR Mk II are all about tomorrow.

Bannon’s apoplectic drumming brings welcome cohesion to DBR’s complex structures. His added brawn gives band foremen Gregor Macmillan and Mike Bryant space to explore, both vocally and melodically, instilling fresh drive through their nocturnally-glazed numbers. Macmillan, in particular, takes the freedom in his stride; roaming the floor while yelping doggishly into his mic as aching blasts of guitar fizzle through the room.

At times it could be the sound of Liars caught in an electric-storm; the din of bass and synth clatters around the air before thumping down like a leaden piped assault. By the time closer ‘Danger Diamonds’ has screeched its final screech, The Store is pleading for mercy, ears bleeding and temples pounding. Dead Boy Robotics may have stopped for now, but you get the impression they’ve only just started.

Photos: Su Anderson

Gigs of 2010: Enfant Bastard, Roxy Art House, 2 October

Y’know, of all the shows I’ve seen in the last 12 months, of all the bands I’ve witnessed storming bigger, better sounding stages, it’s Enfant Bastard’s bit-bending performance in Edinburgh’s Roxy Art House that stands out the most.

I’ve got to admit, I’d never really taken to Enfant’s enigmatic shtick. His unruly reputation always seemed like a perfect cloak for disguising some frustratingly underprepared and half-assed performances. Worse still, people didn’t just tolerate it, they loved it.

But in a 45 minute vacuum of snarling Gameboy throttling, Cameron Watt completely won me over. Gone was the introverted recluse of old; instead here was a stage-hogging showman scything his way through the shrapnel of pulsing, screw-loose electronica.

Sound-wise, Watt was absolutely relentless, pumping out sprawls of drum ‘n’ bass, happy hardcore and techno with breathless, scattergun gusto. In truth, it was spectacular: the kind of pulse-racing, electrifying show I’d never imagined Enfant Bastard was capable of.

For once, being wrong has never felt more right.

Live Review: Enfant Bastard, The Leg, Bit Face, Wounded Knee @ Roxy Art House, 2 October

The Roxy’s underground cavern is the perfect setting for an Enfant Bastard EP launch. Decked out like an amphetamine freak’s rave pit, the poker hot lighting seared against the room’s blackened curtains gives tonight a distinctly claustrophobic, almost suffocating, edge.

Before Enfant makes his entrance there’s a notable undercard of experimental dignitaries to rouse the incumbents of this increasingly space-less venue. First up is enigmatic throatsmith Wounded Knee, otherwise known as Drew Wright, with his gut-born brand of loop pedalled a capella .

With a sound that’s impossible to pin down, Wright tongues his way around a 15 minute skit of brogue-stained intonation that teases out compelling African rhythms. Calling for a "revolution of everyday life", it’s not Wounded Knee at his most politically ferocious, but the thick canopy of reverberating chant still lures the crowd in like salivating moths to a burn of neon light.

The discordant nature of tonight’s roll-call is underlined by Bit Face’s appearance on stage. This one-woman tide of chip-tune bedlam batters away the hypnotic state woven by Wounded Knee; lobotomising the crowd with a surge of abrasive techno that rattles the rafters of the Roxy's shellshocked hall.

It’s high–octane, grey matter screwing stuff, that has limbs thwacking to electro palpitations and the ring of Nintendo-ised chimes. At times it’s unmistakably derivative, with a couple of numbers flying worryingly close to the ‘big box, little box’ bones of Hard House, but by the time the Glasgow girl downs her Gameboy the boom of applause is glowing testament to her well-honed craft.

Next to the floor is local noise mongers The Leg (a last minute replacement for Kylie Minoise), who come out fighting as a two-piece cauldron of drum and guitar. Wielding their motoring anti-song racket, the duo are at full throttle from the off, clanging their way through two-minute long numbers that jar their way into the lugholes without restrain.

But The Leg’s main failing has always been consistent inconsistency and it’s the lack of a killer punch that, ultimately, brings down tonight’s set. The opening brace’s red raw throb flows into a stodgy middle section that lacks any cohesion and smacks of try-hardy avant-gardism. Despite being resuscitated by a final fling of abrasive, throat-slitting clatter it’s difficult to shake the feeling that this really should have been something so much more.

With lights down low, Cameron Watt arrives on stage in typically low key fashion. Under the guise of his electro-bending moniker Enfant Bastard, Watt cuts a mysterious figure; a guarded presence that embodies the polarising factions of the Auld Reekie scene. Yet, as if in spite of his awkward reputation, he’s in sprightly, almost gregarious, mood here tonight as he reels out small talk to the waiting masses.

Plugging his latest release on SL Records, the regally entitled 'Master Dude', Watt steps slowly into the set; almost afraid to interfere with his circuitry of bleep-inducing gadgets. But from the moment he strikes a warning shot of ‘I f***ing hate you’ into the Roxy’s airpspace, mayhem descends. Enfant Bastard has arrived.

The gargantuan blasts of scattergun electronica shooting from the speakers splinter like shrapnel in the eardrums. If electro-shock is Watt’s intention, then he does it with the precision of a psychiatric doctor, neurologically assaulting the crowd with wave after wave of hyperactive, decibel-frothing cuts. Not that those at the front care - they’ve already submitted to the electronic onslaught.

Running the gamut between rumbling Drum ‘n’ Bass and epileptic Happy Hardcore, this splice and dice masterclass is an exhilarating thrill to ride. Every beat feels insistent, as if compelling feet to cut loose, while Watt, now wholly ingrained in the room’s euphoria, feeds the frenzy with arms aloft and fists-pumping the air. It’s almost ridiculous to say it, but this feels more like clubland than the efforts of an enigmatic experimentalist.

How this autobahn atmosphere transfers to record is anyone’s guess. But tonight that really doesn’t matter. Cameron Watt is no longer making music for chins to be stroked; this is music that demands to be danced to. And the funny thing is, you know he loves it.