Unexploded Shells @ Primrose
By Lauren Strain
Firstly I would like to begin by giving the woman on the end of the West Yorkshire Metro enquiries line a beating with a stick for knowing nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, about how to get anywhere in Leeds and particularly anywhere involving bus routes 51, 51a, 52, 52a, 53, 56, 74 and 95. As Morena rightly advised me, the only way to get anywhere at all these days is simply by trusting in your sense of smell. These are primitive times...
Right, so, hello (much later) to The Primrose, hello to an exceedingly minimal measure of Jack Daniel's and hello to lilting lovelies Redwood Thinkers, two unassuming, clean-shaven males, one slightly more bashful than the other, playing acoustic islands of calm, plaintive thoughts in rich tones. Smoothly-textured, ringing chords ebb and flow from their guitars, the singer's candlelight voice casting a comforting glow of softly smoking incense across the room. A little too mellow for sure, but with unexpected turns of slightly bitter, slightly resentful complaints nudging their way in as they question "What if I forgot your birthday, what if I forgot your name?" Dealing in personal, personable and down-to-earth everyman's storytelling, Redwood Thinkers daub a wash of homely yellow ochre over everything and invite you to consider everyday realities with an accepting eye.
Maybe it's nerves, maybe it's the habit of wily plectrums to keep escaping players' hands tonight, but no matter how many times we're informed that her song 'Run For Cover' is number six on some chart somewhere on the internettle, Fiona Miller's (Girlb & The Invisible Men) music is not the warm folk blanket it wants to be but a sadly dampened, dull and out-of-harmony affair, her gentle voice fluctuating between brief moments of countryside peacefulness and longer spells of wobbling, wavering insecurity. Rhythms on her acoustic guitar jolt awkwardly from one tempo to another, slowly creaking, fumbling and falling apart. The emotion might be inside her, but there's no force here pushing it out except a weak, almost apologetic hum of self-consciousness emanating from her strings.
Then along came Bill from Wheelie. Well, yes. Nevermind. Etc.
Breaking the chain of contemplative loneliness so far this evening, then, the stage is now positively packed to the gunwales with a mighty excess of people - band members, that would be, of Unexploded Shells, an intriguing menagerie of ages all cobbled together with nuts, bolts, three guitars, one bass and a drumkit to form a pretty impressive whole.
It's not that they're getting territorial or anything, it's probably just due to the marginal amount of available floor space, but guitarist Tim being stuck, a little hunched, in the corner is a bit of a shame as the sounds squeezing and squirming out of his electric (via his trusty steed of an amp, Reginald) are thrillingly acidic, skewered and abrasive. This, combined with Jack Goodhand's pillar of powerful drumming bolstering the band's sound, creates a fiercely confident, asymmetrical, pounding backdrop for the observant and nonplussed vocal stylings. Goodhand Senior (that would be Tom)'s nonchalant vocals slot alongside frontman Mark's knowingly-understated, keen-eyed mutterings, the two providing a sensitive, relaxed commentary over the top of the rumbling bass and thumping drums.
Mark, I'm told, has written a book about Pulp, and you can buy it in HMV. "Wow!" I exclaimed, "that's awesome!" And "yes", I also exclaimed, you can see the Cocker-like, unfazed attitude in him, too, as he stands a little studiously, a little humbly and just a tiny little cynically before the microphone murmuring "I've never been to The Primrose before, it's ace, isn't it?"
If they ever begin to sink a little into the quicksand that a good n' healthy yet repetitive riff and rhythm can so easily become (which, admittedly, they do a fair few times), they recover with something just that bit different, namely in the instrumental highlight towards the end of the set during which they swirl, screech and dirge (but in an entirely good way) over a track of dislocated voices and snippets of interviews, conjuring a creepy and hypnotic whirlpool of unnerving modernism. This looks to be what Unexploded Shells do best - manipulating atmosphere; building it, changing it, killing it and leaving us wanting more. More, especially, of these experiments in noise, of the growing grumbles and grunting beats. Ram your eyes shut, lower your head, delve deep down into your mind, inhale the smoke and let your ears absorb that creation; it's a little druggy, a little dark. You'll like it. You'll want more of it. Then you'll want Metro to put buses on at a later time than 23:05 on a Saturday night to that you can actually stay and make the most of your evening, but (quoth Jagger, and Jagger is always right) you can't always get what you want. Unexploded Shells might, though, if they keep going on like this...
..smoother version can be heard at www.girlb.co.uk
Just kidding ;)
