Reviewed onSaturday July 16
Feedtime’s legacy is a collection of wholly formed parts. Crafting a noise based on both dirty distortion and dance-punk antagonism, the band has cranked out some of the finest albums ever to be produced in this country, mixing the clenched fist of ’Strayan pub shanties with loops of distortion. A record like Shovel is an overloaded equation – part blues, part rock, part something else entirely, and their magic is the kind of messy alchemy that takes gold and turns it into mud somehow worth more.
The surprise of their show on Saturday was not their greatness – given their pedigree that was almost guaranteed – but how polished they sounded. This was artful noise being crafted by expert hands: a grimy bowl full of cracked eggs being reassembled into a Fabergé. The loping, lurching significance of ‘Ha Ha’ rested not on the croaky vocals or the unhinged lyrics, but the pinpoint accuracy of the rhythm section, and the bass and stripped-down drum set were both handled with a precision oft associated with brain surgery.
Their exemplary cover of ‘Paint It Black’ was just one of many of the night’s treasures, with the song’s twisted, tortured chorus breaking out like a riot. The audience, a half-and-half mix of diehard fans and new blood, were respectful but energised, jerking and spluttering around the place like one of Feedtime’s songs. The band appeared humbled – almost surprised by the affection that rippled through the fans like heat coming off tarmac on a sunny day. “Thanks,” they said, more than once, their heads bowed, before launching into the next spasmodic number, again and again and again.
Rollicking, demented verses broke apart like ships upon shores – ‘Fastbuck’ didn’t so much end as it did collapse in upon itself, and the oversaturated pleasures to be found in the latter half of the band’s discography sent the stage buckling under the weight of all those crunchy choruses. It was relentless – an unending anxiety attack that you could dance to – and by the time it was all done, the fans shuffled away like they had been punched in the gut.
But before that, in the bathrooms, a man stood staring at the mirror as it vibrated and hummed in time to the music. “Look,” he said, pointing at it with a stubby finger. “Even the fuckin’ mirror is gettin’ into it!” It was fitting. The endorsement of grimy bathroom mirrors is exactly less than Feedtime deserve, and yet precisely what they might be after.
