Another
early 2020 trip down to SWX for me, this time to see The Murder Capital, a band
I'd just missed on their last go-round, moving too slow before their Exchange
gig sold out... Following the likes of Spectres, Autobahn, Idles and more
obviously 2019's much-hyped rock press darlings Fontaines DC (whom I like fine,
but find the vocalist somewhat off-key and jarring, and for whom I gave up my
Oxford O2 ticket to my friend Andy, as that gig fell one day after a knackered
return from Boston in November!), this Irish post-punk band of gentlemen
ruffians take their sonic cue from the likes of Killing Joke, The Fall and The
Birthday Party with a bruising, viscerally dark, claustrophobic yet intriguing
sound, encapsulated in an impressive debut album, last year's "When I Have
Fears". It's a bleak, uncompromising vision, but, let's face it, with a
name like "The Murder Capital", this lot are hardly likely to cover
"Shiny Happy People", are they? So, prime proponents of the type of
aggressive post-punk I'm increasingly referring to as "Arthur Shelby
Rock" (as it all invariably sounds like it should be sound-tracking a
scene from "Peaky Blinders", where the Shelby's attack dog gives
someone a fucking good kicking down a darkened alleyway), I was curious to see
how this worked "live"; a set to be enjoyed, or endured?
Equally
curious was old school and recent Facebook friend Keith, along with the
aforementioned Andy, so we left early, queueing to get onto the M4 but then
enjoying a swift drive down catching up. Pitched up midway through opener
Unorthodox Coolock, an Irish poet-raconteur whose social commentary was worthy
if a little hectoring, so we stayed at the back of this already busy venue, wandering
forward to a spot house right for main support Egyptian Blue, on at 8.15.
Straight away a considerably more enticing proposition, all Will Sargent guitar
textures, long gloomy raincoats, taut and tense rhythm and building mid-song
crescendos, they not only elicited the obvious Bunnymen/ British Sea Power comparisons,
but also the regimented, metronomic jangle and clipped vocals of the likes of Mission
Of Burma or Gang Of Four. A study of insouciance, with very little audience
interaction - only their change-of-pace last number was introduced, and that
only with, "this is our last number" - this was nonetheless a fine
support set from impressive if currently slightly derivative newcomers.
We
kept our spot, but the place got proper old school rammed, with big blokes
barging past left and right. An uncomfortable wait then, before choking dry
ice, strobe and feedback welcomed The Murder Capital onstage at 9.20, intense
vocalist Jack McGovern taking the stage last, barking out the terrace-chant
hook of opener "More Is Less" to an increasing and adoring moshpit,
whereupon he abandoned the stage and joined in! Sure, seen that plenty of
times, but rarely if ever during the opening number...!
"What's
the fucking story Bristol!" announced McGovern, relishing in his chief
rabble-rouser role, before the discordant siren scream and militaristic
drumbeat of "For Everything", which kept up the initial frenzied
pace. No one-trick ponies however, this lot, as following an apposite address
from McGovern emphasising the sense of community TMC have felt during this
tour, they delivered the set highlight in an elegiac and astonishing "On
Twisted Ground"; stark, bare and affecting, drawing not only reverential
silence from the crowd, but an emotional, impassioned vocal from McGovern. The
boy can sing, no messin', and judging by the moment he took to compose himself
afterwards, the song clearly cut deep.
A
staccato, Interpol-like "Green And Blue" changed up the tempo if not
eerie mood; "Don't Cling To Life" again saw a frenzied moshpit spread
out even to our vantage point, then the caustic, fractured punk of final number
"Feeling Fades" (which in a Frank Turner "Photosynthesis"
moment, initially saw the crowd crouch down - not me, not with these knees! -
before bursting into ragged, raucous life) saw McGovern crowdsurf to its denouement,
rounding off a stunning set which, if somewhat short at 50 minutes, never left
anything out, material-wise or in terms of commitment.
The
set lists went quickly to the moshpit massive (fair enough really), but we
caught our breath then chanced to have a quick word and handshake with a
surprisingly softly-spoken and humble frontman, laudably following up his onstage
proclamation that he’d hang out afterwards at the merch stand. So, a dark,
brutal and raw-boned set then from The Murder Capital, yet delivered with a
confidence and swagger from a band clearly destined for much greater things.
Glad I caught them on the way up, because the sky appears to be the limit for
this lot. And as for McGovern? Well, judging by his flagrantly puffing away at
a couple of ciggies onstage, he's not the messiah - he's a very naughty boy!
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