Review: The Moonlandingz, Trinity

Sweat are a difficult band to pin down – they played an invigorating support full of hedonistic slipperiness: every time you thought you caught an influence or reference to another band the tune morphed or changed leaving you wrong footed but dancing. Underpinning the band was a constant groove somewhere between the relentless Motorik groove of the Krautrock bands and a baggy Manc vibe. There was a bit of a spaced out psyche thing happening, not the whimsical Barrett psyche, something more urban, something reminiscent of a harder psyche, something more 21st century.

Drummer Matt Barnes was at the heart of the band, his performance compelling evidence that science had somehow spliced the DNA of an octopus with both John Bonham and Clyde Stubblefield, a powerful swinging relentless groove: real drums, synth pads, and an inventive approach far beyond the drummer as a beat keeper. His basstastic partner in crime David Noble was ever forceful and equally relentless, the pair driving the tunes remorselessly. This left keyboard man Gamaliel Traynor free to swoosh and whoosh; swathes of sci-fi ambience and unnerving yet enticing soundscapes leading the songs simultaneously into outer and inner space. Harrison on guitar was lost in the music, no conventional riffs, but unsettling picking and minimalist lead work but alas somewhat lost in the mix – the tunes demanded some overdriven axe cranked out of a fuck off big rig of Marshalls to unsettle the trance.

Dante Traynor gave a compelling performance, jerking to the beat: angular yet fluid and captivating, vocals straight and treated (more Meninblack than Auto-Tune) and engaged with both material and crowd alike. Be Complete was a belter, as evidenced by crowd cries to “play it again” but Traynor (D) assured us What Men Want was better (it was) and yet that too was followed by calls for Be Complete again but as advertised PLW VIP was better again – the set grew in quality as the band powered their way into the groove, genuinely lost in the music. Sweat are an exciting new prospect, an exceedingly enticing alternative to the fey indie guitar mop tops and indie rehash merchants, buy their stuff, go to their gigs and save the world from the fashion police approved next big thing.

The Moonlandingz are apparently returning to the world of fiction, which is a damn shame as they are a thrilling alternative to the balls-achingly earnest art metal bands delighting the critics and the plodding faux hard rock bands headlining the trendy festivals with their sincere post-grunge loud / quiet hipster approved anthems.

Unlike the band’s previous trip to town, Rebecca Taylor was conspicuous by her absence leaving Johnny Rocket the sole focus stage front, however a marauding bass warrior throwing shapes like he was auditioning for the Eagles of Death Metal took up the visual slack with such alacrity and vigour that his instrument was wrecked after Black Hanz, only the second cut. A chorus or five of a Celtic classic kept the crowd happy whilst an alternative was sourced (“…bring us the butter cos we’re all covered in shite…”).  Neuf de Pape reinvigorated the crowd, who’d already reached fever pitch during Black Hanz. In fact the crowd were in exuberant form from the off: a heaving, pogoing mass just this side of a circle pit, bless their youthful indie hearts but Satan hasn’t quite led them to Slayer crowd excesses yet.

I.D.S. kept the audience on the boil and Sweet Saturn Mine managed to raise the volume with its insanely infectious gallop. The Strangle of Anna was preceded with a request for any ladies who knew the words to take the stage for the backing vocals and this was the band’s only misstep as a gaggle of refreshed ladies clambered on stage for a calamitous dancethon and very little singing. Never have a gaggle of self-conscious girls made so much effort to twerk and jerk with studious efforts at looking both sultry and un-self-conscious. Momentum was lost and the shambles down the front led to a flood of spilt booze, frayed tempers and audience members evicted.

The set progressed at a frantic place every tune greeted with equal rapture and plenty of crowd vocals. The anonymous touring drummer consciously or sub-consciously decided that no support drummer was going to out-play him and battered the bejebus out of his kit, enough momentum to put a skip into orbit and more fills than a Neil Peart solo; determined beat powering the songs and anchoring the lunacy of the lyrics and vocals. The equally anonymous guitar player brought the glamour, brought the riffs and brought infrequent but beautifully succinct and stinging leads to the mix, aloof and insouciant yet plenty of Cheshire cat grins illuminating the fretwork. Funk metal bass underpinned the pounding drums and radiophonic synths livened up the mix, along with Gnomic comments; all swirling around the coiled spring that was Johnny Rocket, stripped to the waist by the midway point.

The set ended all too soon but despite the hollering and baying there was no encore, perhaps the band distraught that Banksy never did identify himself as they’d be demanding he make himself known from the off. They weren’t shy though, piling in to the crowd to greet acquaintances and sign stuff, friendly and approachable and not at all the earnest art provocateurs the concept might suggest.

The Moonlandingz really have been one of the most exciting musical escapades of 2017, their stupidly innovative and inescapably catchy cyber-glam-metal-disco grooves enthralling on record and irresistible live. Let’s hope that some fucker works an Ouija board sometime next year and drags them back from the comfort of their fictitious world to save us all from musical complacency and endless rehashing of the wrong bands’ dumbest ideas.

The Moonlandingz: Trinty, 23rd November 2017