Hitting the heavyweight league
It is unseasonably warm at ULU. A translucent fog is thrown up by expectant young bodies flailing around to reggae in anticipation of the main act. This bit where a discarded autumn is fading into the distance and before winter has really taken hold means there is plenty of discarded clothing around the room. Breath stinks of cheap booze in plastic cups. Pale winter pallor glistens with finely beaded sweat.
Gang Gang Dance begin just 3 minutes late by my watch. It’s a brooding intro, all iterative beats, thomping drums and pithy bass guitar that, like an ant colony to a discarded crisp by a Mediterranean swimming pool, urge everyone closer. The crowd swells, people dropping out of the orderly queue for the bar like drunks from the cab queue when the hourly night bus arrives. You’ll want to catch this one; you’ll enjoy the ride.
Brian Degraw is hunched like a man possessed over his keys. His head bowed, deep in unashamed devotion to his craft, he lurches gingerly backwards and forwards, all the while keeping his feet firmly on the ground. His is an understated and polite demonstration of mirth.
She turns on the spot and Lizzi Bougatsos’ trademark howl is upon us. Its force is unrelenting, espousing an energy that makes the crowd move in unison in an effort to emulate her style. People are rediscovering their hips in this drab heat. All jumpers discarded this movement is beyond swaying and the bobbing of heads and the bending of knees. Navigation like this can only be about emotion and experience and feeling.
Degraw’s consistency is a neat parallel to Bougatsos’ errant modulations. There’s something in this clash of dynamism that seems to fuel the fire of the band’s live performances. This friction between deft workmanship and spirited flourishes creates something that transcends the immediate live experience.
“Doesn’t it just make you want to smile when you see something so beautiful,” inquires an affable American making my acquaintance.
My eyes roll. I mutter something about pixelated projections on a pinned-up bed sheet and move away. But he’s right. It might not look like much but Gang Gang Dance have hit the heavyweight league.
Words by Anne Hollowday
Gang Gang Dance begin just 3 minutes late by my watch. It’s a brooding intro, all iterative beats, thomping drums and pithy bass guitar that, like an ant colony to a discarded crisp by a Mediterranean swimming pool, urge everyone closer. The crowd swells, people dropping out of the orderly queue for the bar like drunks from the cab queue when the hourly night bus arrives. You’ll want to catch this one; you’ll enjoy the ride.
Brian Degraw is hunched like a man possessed over his keys. His head bowed, deep in unashamed devotion to his craft, he lurches gingerly backwards and forwards, all the while keeping his feet firmly on the ground. His is an understated and polite demonstration of mirth.
She turns on the spot and Lizzi Bougatsos’ trademark howl is upon us. Its force is unrelenting, espousing an energy that makes the crowd move in unison in an effort to emulate her style. People are rediscovering their hips in this drab heat. All jumpers discarded this movement is beyond swaying and the bobbing of heads and the bending of knees. Navigation like this can only be about emotion and experience and feeling.
Degraw’s consistency is a neat parallel to Bougatsos’ errant modulations. There’s something in this clash of dynamism that seems to fuel the fire of the band’s live performances. This friction between deft workmanship and spirited flourishes creates something that transcends the immediate live experience.
“Doesn’t it just make you want to smile when you see something so beautiful,” inquires an affable American making my acquaintance.
My eyes roll. I mutter something about pixelated projections on a pinned-up bed sheet and move away. But he’s right. It might not look like much but Gang Gang Dance have hit the heavyweight league.
Words by Anne Hollowday
Gang Gang Dance
