Southern frat-boy rockers

With the wreak of fresh 02 blowing east along Oxford street from Hyde Park, it’s no surprise that there was some piping hot American rock in town, with the 100 Club boasting a whole bills worth, kicking off with Chief the unsigned New York alt-country rock quartet that don a mantle in deep felt harmonies, perfectly paced 4/4 folk and heart tugging white boy blues.

It was a set in tribute to a rustic Eddie Vedder with steel string spurs as stand out track Mighty Proud prompted a hefty sing-a-long from their front-row parental fan base. Gold star for this debut London gig!

Next up were L.A lyres Seawolf, a heard of young musos in the demand of the Kid Harpoon-esque Alex Church. I think their were six of them, which makes for a whole lot of sound including keys, guitar, cello and a piano accordion, and though I’m more than certain the songs were in their somewhere, the usually delicate alt-rock played by the crew proved tonight anyway, a mighty racket. Thoguh it’s hard to determine if it was a case of Church hiring the same sound guy as MBV or whether it was the ill organised arrangements, these polite folk ditties seemed blah-y, though without doubt, Church is a talent to keep a keen eye on, just as long has he remembers that quite often enough, less is more.

And finally came The Whigs, a band of southern frat-boy rockers who delivered a very accomplished debut long-disc titled Mission Control not so long ago into the itching palms of tired Soundgarden fans. Brining their heavily charged live show to London, the trio opened the set with thrusty-guitar and such brutishly wild drumming, as Parker Gispert The Whigs boyishly striking front man waited until Right Hand On My Heart to unleash, what can only be described as Chuck Berry doing trip-hop dance moves, which was not only the most unique mambos I’ve seen, but also, the coolest!

Inject all diffident shoegazers with whatever’s in the water down south because these boys rocked it, and that’s not just their moves. Already Young had us tripping on a bumpy road to grunge-town while album favourite Hot Bed had hips shaking and mops banging. It was 100% rock’n’roll with mad ginger drummer, and a bassist whose vigour was not unlike the late Cliffy Lee Burton. Every bit enthralling the group bought it down a notch with Sleep Sunshine before Need You Need You, which had Parker demonstrating how the circumference of his mouth could swallow the head of the microphone. A novelty indeed as Parker and Co. bought this old-skool rock gig to a deafening halt, though the ringing in my ears will surely remains.


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