Supersonic 2008 Review
My, what a mess.
Itchy has only just recovered from the tear-open-your-ribcage-and-haul-out-your-internal-organs noise-fest that was Supersonic. We were sucked deep into its screeching, unrelenting grasp – spending the weekend swirling around in a dizzying, sensory whirlpool (that never ended ... well it did).
Having spent rather too long enjoying lubrication at Scruffy's, we missed the Friday night opening set from London noisecore trio, Cutting Pink With Knives, so not a great start, admittedly.
Post-faffing, we managed to catch local drum 'n' bass kings PCM, kicking up a hardcore jungle storm at the Outside Stage, as we bounced around among a collection of inebriated fancy dress surgeons – basically the cast of Scrubs having dropped some (non-prescription) acid.
It all got a bit messy when a hairy metal man came on stage and injected a bit of doom into the mix; introducing 'doom 'n' bass' (which was immense, by the way) to us, his doting disciples.
Saturday saw an auditory bludgeoning from Thrones, a wall of heavy guitar and bass, against a backdrop of thumping beats and bellowing vocals from Joe Preston.
Eardrums re-skinned, we skipped down merrily to the Factory Club to see a blistering set from Brum punkers, Beestung Lips. They come on stage – minus moustached-maniac front man Hetro Pearton – but still managed to unleash a barrage of noise, drums, and screeching vox from bassist San Diego Pearton.
Hetro was coaxed on stage for a couple of thrashing tracks, and the true majesty of the band was unleashed. Ripping off his shirt to transform into the sweaty and twisted bloke he is; like a man possessed, he honked up big slops of spit and hurled them into the air.
After 20 minutes of slaughter, the band called time and ordered the crowd to go and watch Oxbow. So we did as we were told.
And we're glad we did. One of our Supersonic friends warned us about the nutty front man, Eugene Robinson, but on first glance he looks rather innocent; dressed smartly in a suit and tie. Swamped in a wall of noise, we begin to wonder what the fuss is about.
But the calm doesn't last; as he begins to thrash about on stage – touching and grabbing his delicate areas, stripping down to his underpants, reveal a soggy, muscle-adorned body and flailing his tattooed arms the size of tree trunks. As the vicious and hypnotising music thunders around us, he prowls the crowd with his evil eyes, rolling them into the back of his head – gurning like a savage beast.
With blistering beats, pummelling down against a wall streaked with shit-your-pants bass and thrashing guitar, and this half naked madman hurling himself around rubbing himself, it makes for a genuinely scary experience.
Disturbing. Captivating. Absolutely bloody marvellous – exactly what Supersonic's all about.
TL
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