In this insalubrious space they are not any less big, but much more tiny, more detailed. There is a petitness, a skinnyness to the refrain. A breaking wave scatters the silence of the band, falling down into a clutter of sound. The drums champ, scattered cymbals chink amongst the battering of a tom-tom. The voice a soothing chant, repeating words not of this world, a lullaby for worldless children. The sound is soft and round and scared, a late mother of a toothful dog-child. There are strings skittering around the bowed double bass, wilful imps amongst a stirruped back beat. A piano tramp corrals a buffoonery of darting horns against pitch deep grumbling accordion. The bright new brass chimes in delirious arpeggios, scaling and spiralling around the droning chord walls. The tale of the song is pitiful sweet and alluring, recants of sonabulent doll-fiends and dredging drug slaves. The scantity of light lives against black back stories. Whilst it could be mere precious starling chirrups, the grissly ribs of the song poke through, revealing meat and cartilage that brays of the bravura adventures and callous endeavours of youth untethered. It is at once gaseous and graceful, yet equally stumbling, sod laden, wall-eyed and arrogant.
It is as elemental as any sound given rude form, punchy and rueful in a recumbent back room, belying its paunchy surrounds to bruise the sensibilities of the audience with its delicate and divisive incantations. Once over, the taste of the melody hums in the belly of the ear like the virginal stealing of a straying uber-mensch. The band stagger off, drained and bloodless, spent. We splinter home to wonder at the world made unreal by these strains of eloquent guttery, too revived to fear the workful grey dawn, happy and dirty and whole.
It is the music that makes us.
