Crocodiles have whipped up quite a frenzy. Riding high on the waves of the shoegaze revival, their steadfast commitment to punk makes for a more boisterous sound, imbuing them with a sense of raw energy that their contemporaries may lack. Certainly, Crocodiles should not be thrown onto the heap of over-hyped wannabes just yet: their performance at The Victoria on Friday night showed that they have the clout and gusto of a band who are clearly here for the long term.
And with the snake hips of Jarvis and the relentless vigour of Johnny Rotten, front man Brandon Welchez commands some serious authority. Writhing around on stage like a man demonically possessed, he immersed himself fully in the claustrophobic sound of Crocodiles and we were with him every step of the way.
The venue was a beer-soaked sweat-box. Hemmed in like battery chickens fighting for air, it was pretty rammed in there to say the least. But you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. The oppressively deafening feedback and clouds of distorted fuzz felt like an impenetrable barrier around the crowd: a wall of sound that could not be broken. And standing within this blaring noise enclosure made for an intensely visceral, life-affirming experience indeed. Imagine if My Bloody Valentine played in your living room: your ears would probably start bleeding but you would also feel a strange sense of achievement at having been able to withstand such a brutal attack on your senses.
But it wasn’t all deafening moans and ear-splitting white noise, you could still hear the odd melody creeping through the hazy fog and materialising nicely. The duo sustained unfaltering showmanship throughout their set, evoking a golden age of punk rock. And although Paul Cook was a no-show, his stage cameo would have been but a luxury adornment to an already electrifying live performance.
Words by April Welsh
