The following article was published in N-SPHERE February 2011 issue.


Oh… how can one not miss the quaint atmosphere of a rundown autoshop turned into an upside down canopy bed? How can one not see the empiric symbolism hidden behind mattresses on the ceiling and big metal cages on the floor? Actually, it was only one cage, in Cage Club. The rest is history – which coincidentally reminds me of my highschool history teacher who looked like a carrot turned upside down and inside out, overbloated with a misguided sense of discipline and an austerity into what is what that has troubled me since the late years of adolescence. Why does that matter, you ask? Because I was refraining from comparing the concert there with a big carrot. Erm… too late to fake it now, so here we go.

The evening started with an utter and tragic disappointment. There was no wardrobe. However, trying all night to shield my coat from flying burning cigarette buds could have not affected my good time now, could it? So there you have it, the tip of the big red juicy carrot, slowly making its way in… Aaaaane–waaay, the stage was occupied by Tenek. British (yes, with an accent), trying hard, not that bad, not that good, but all in all they made into a nice little start. A pop–ish sound had tentacles into the eardrums at times, but they grew on the eager audience. See? The tip: sweet but not quite satisfying.

After a quick shift of musical instruments on stage, a real surprise popped up, unexpectedly delightful. Rabia Sorda was,in this rant–er’s humble opinion, the jewel of the evening. Erk Aicrag has made a captivating show on stage. So much effervescence in one guy has rarely been seen. Loud sound, very loud; rough, but not brutal; from the peeling thin latex layers on his arms to the red make–up, the show managed to bring out of the audience the will to jump around. On top of that, the dominance infused gestures managed to raise some spirits really fast. The middle of the carrot, boys and girls: yum, juicy, just the right size, wishing it would last just a little bit more; which the audience requested loudly with trampling of boots and whatnot.

And then, there comes the end of the carrot, with a bitter, hard to swallow taste and unappealing leaves, in the shape of Peter Spilles’ hair. I do not have a particularly bad opinion over Project Pitchfork’s music, but oh boy, did they suck live. While expecting a deep soothing voice, the ears got screams. While hearing those hoarse singing efforts, the eye expected consequent scenic movement, which would have been more appropriate to the deep male voice their music has while not live. But let’s make an excuse for them, since the steam–smoke–thing someone was so kind to release on stage in a closed up small little tiny space made my throat hurt sending needles in my larynx every time I uttered a word, I can only imagine what the lead singer was going through up there.

All in all, it was a good night, if you don’t mind holding on to heavy coats in a closed up club with smoke and steam and a bunch of other people.

review & photo by Vel Thora

Full article here.