Viva Divas

(This was weird because I don't actually like Vivian Girls' music at all. It was more of an experiment to see whether I could write objectively about a performance regardless of my issues with the subject's output. Anyway this was for The Stool Pigeon, which comes out some time next week. Photos by Owen Richards, who is good.)

In deepest Dalston there are many half-houses, decrepit dorms and graveolent garage abysses that stand in for sweaty noise venues, but the Trinity Music Hall - a community centre-come-pensioners’ keep fit space – must be amongst the least befitting. After manhandling my way through the prayer labyrinth like entrance, I expected to open the door to a room divided by gender and full of pre-pubescent shoe-gazers. Somehow the bric-a-brac aesthetic fit perfectly with the musical themes of the night, though.

London’s Male Bonding offer a spikey, rustic take on the retro American sound a la Rites of Spring, but it was, intentionally or not, completely drowned in reverb on the night. The hall didn’t do them any favours either in helping to dissipate what are very straightforward melodies - shattering their focus, spitting them up and hurling them down Kingsland Road in a maelstrom of bullish disarray and undulating discordance.

When the Vivian Girls came on my ears were pulsing claret and shins caved in by 12 year old moshers three sheets to the wind on SmartPrice Tennants. Happy days…Shit. Fortunately the Vivs were in grave-robbingly good spirit, and sounded like a suitably dressed down, fuzzed up version of The Applicators. ‘The End’ was a wall of melodic, cinematic canvas messing fun, sped up and spewed out with punky Riot Grrl piss take panache.


The highlight came midway in when the lasses convened for a hymnal, a’cappella take on The Chantels’ He’s Gone. For all the layers of reverb and surf –drone, the cover proved just how melodically aware - and tight - the band actually are. Not afraid to strip things down, the barbershop triplet had the crowd stomping to the awkward signature in unison…clapping is just so Cliff Richard’s impromptu ‘Devil Woman’ slaying at Wimbledon ’96…

Though visible cracks manifested in drummer Ali Koehler telling the crowd to ‘cool it’ just half a dozen songs in – two critically acclaimed albums in two years and a whirlwind tour of Asia, Europe and North America, anyone? – the troupe seem incredibly humbled by all the attention, and their smiles seemed genuine rather than painted.

By the time Tell The World, their strongest single, raised its gargantuan head, zealous followers had convulsed into a squirming mass of sweat and mud as lead gunslinger Cassie Ramone continued to melt captivatingly into her mic. How they can churn out such immersive depictions of lovelorn fuzz anthems night after night is anyone’s guess really, but it’s certainly a pleasure to see a band fulfilling their potential on such a prolific scale.