Women at White Heat

Women at White Heat

18 February, 2009
by: Stevros

It's kind of apt in a way for the band generally regarded as the new Velvet Underground to be playing at Soho's famous White Heat. Probably every smaller band worth its salt has played there, with many higher profile acts such as Foals and more recently Klaxons returning to play, safe in the knowledge that they could easily fill a venue at least six times its size.
 
Stepping into here today it's pretty much stuffed to the seams, full of eighteen year olds who probably aren't going to get up for college tomorrow, and Soho business types who have been listening to MGMT all week, while working in a post-production company that is probably facing administration. Super typically the music industry representatives and music scenesters are over represented in this one hundred and something capacity entertainment venue.
 
Unfortunately arriving after Desmond and the Tutus played, we bear witness to the damaged pop songs of San Fransico's The Soft Pack who are in the midst of their five night stand in London. It's stripped-down high tempo punk rock that they peddle, no frills but hooks and crescendos aplenty. Tonight their trebly guitar rhythms are absorbed into the sweaty room, as they blast through what seems like twenty songs in as many minutes.
 
They sing home-grown pop songs, which bask in introspective honesty yet drive like Hot Snakes covering The Strandells classic 'Dirty Water'. It's straight up with whoah-ohs and no pause for breath between songs. Looks like 2009 could be a good year for rock and roll.
 
Noise-pop revivalists Women take to the stage in a flurry of pretty dissonance and syncopated drum beats. Like a lo-fi Canadian 'These New Puritans', with seemingly improvised noise sections, a lack of synthesiser and without the same level of pretentiousness. The fuzzy, minor chord fizz is delicately controlled and directed over the course of the night, the penultimate show of their British tour of duty.
 
Cacophony disguises the beginnings and ends of songs. The frequent use of discordance, and the harshness of tone pushes the songs to the periphery and proves difficult to understand. Yet within this chaos, an overwhelming sense that the band is pulling in the same direction is conveyed to the mesmerised audience. The panache of the Beatles, or Beach Boys-esque songwriting shines through, with even rare moments of Shins, James Mercer's style, elegant movement of vocal melody.

As they bring their set to a close it appears that audience attention is starting to waver, possibly a sign that they play for almost the perfect amount of time. It wraps up with a nihilistic squall of feedback and percussion, a thick, hazy expanse that's both comforting and disorientating.

White Heat is at Madame Jojo's every Tuesday and rarely disappoints. Women have a new self titled record on indie stalwarts JagJaguwar.

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Stevros