"R.R.C AND THE BRIXTON GENIE"

ALL THE ODDS were against me attending this show, from a potential Narcos-style-Belgian-drug-bust before the Eurostar, almost missing said Eurostar, AND not actually having a ticket to a sold out gig - I should have gone home with my tail between my legs. But nah, got sucked under the water and spat out in Brixton where I persevered uphill with a FAT suitcase, ending up at the pub strategically dressed in my R.M.F.C shirt. It was around this time that an actual tail appeared to wag for my good fortune, as the Brixton Windmill dog met my eye from the roof of the pub (i swear this is true)… legend has it, the hound materialises in times of need; a South-London punk genie that grants three wishes to desperate, helpless souls like myself. And so, my long-lost Irish cousin and I were stamped, with a pint in hand and heavy hankering for some sweet and salty garage punk. Time for the entree: ISLAND OF LOVE, followed by a bitta POWERPLANT and Sydney’s own RESEARCH REACTOR CORP. for the main course. 

Me and the other punters are now stranded on the ISLAND OF LOVE, but no one seems too fussed about sending any SOS signals coz they start layin’ down some moody English guitar and shaking their long tresses around in circles. Gimme “songs of love”, not shelter! Listening to live rock and roll is good for your soul because everyone kind of turns into a dad, so there’s bound to be some issues resolved for a fair few people in the crowd. The power of music! In all seriousness, (and in defence of rock) , Island of Love are pretty fantastic.“I’ve Got the Secret”, from their most recent record fills up the room and scatters around the silver garlands hanging up on the walls - but it’s “Head Case” that grabs my attention. This track fucks with my hormones and reverts me from dad to teenager in its arrogant disposition n’ nonchalant no cares guitar. Super different to the other songs, its slowcore, its fuzzy and its super addictive. The rambly lyrics stick with me: “I met someone that met somebody on the way - I’m replaced. Thought I had to get a little off my chest, think about each other in a different way - I’m amazed” - hm! Ok. Gotta swim back to the Brixton Boat.

I double check my neck pillow is still safe behind the bar and in the process magnetise the company of another Sydneysider. We discuss dangers of dog sitting, knife wounds from wrangling marrow zucchinis and, his aunts 14-yr-old chicken called Mrs Nosey. I am having important thoughts about eggs and oversized vegetables but then see that tail again and realise its time for me to be granted my second wish. POOF! before me appears a very swag Powerplant shirt (that did not involve me heckling the main man and falsely accusing him of bearing an Irish accent) - thank you genie! I will now finally be accepted by the Ukranian/English punk scene! 

I then shield my eyes because POWERPLANT have lit up the stage. I carry my pint into the mosh over the crowd like the pope with a holy relic and set myself up for some weird and wonderful radioactive noises. The bass player makes me need to up my glasses prescription for “A Spine”, because his fingers move so fast that his left hand starts to resemble Taz from looney toones and everything gets a bit blurry. There’s nothin’ looney about the calibre of this music though, as I am blown away by the musicians before me and the heavy synthy low-fi explosion of sound that wrestles with the dance floor. Even if the frontman (Theo Zhykharyev) sounds a bit like the devil, its in the most endearing way possible and there’s a playfulness to this band that doesn’t underestimate their ability to rock!! Oh man - “Walk Around (Hang my Head)” kicks off with some jolly bells and I go crazy coz I really like this song. “You’re on your knees - come quietly!” Later progresses in to what can only be recorded here as “GAK GAK GAK” by the end of the set - a lyrical gibberish that skips around hand in hand the with the drum machine. 

Right! All thats left are some punk lessons from RESEARCH REACTOR CORP. and my third and final wish. The band jumps up and the Bulmers has taken its full effect. It’s getting weird. “Fake Identity” rattles out over the crowd which makes me giggle and grin like a little kid (more hormone rearrangement). The amplitude was hot. My face was hot. The guy on synth was hot. Everything was hot! My genie dog was barking and so was the frontman Billy. This isn’t even non-lexical vocals, (I did my research) (sorry), this is mutant brain possession coz this man has gone full zombie and his actually eyes start popping out of his head and onto the floor. I am hoping the genie doesn’t mistake these loose eyeballs for tennis balls when “Septic Fucker” sparks up without an epilepsy warning. It’s dark and then it’s bright, and in the sparse moments of light, I think I see the creature from Frankenstein being zapped into existence. The Brits are a bit frightened at this stage coz no one really knows how to mosh properly except for the Sydney ragtags and my Irish cousin. OK OK OK! The music stops and I stomp slowly outside keeping my eyes peeled for Mary Shelley and any other unfastened organs lost to the immense pressure of Research Reactor Corp. 

We are outside chattering to R.R.C’s guitarist Ishka. He is in 100 000 bands and probably conducts orchestras on the side too. I inform him that his name sounds like the Irish word for water, otherwise spelled “uisce”. My cousin also elaborates that “uisce beatha”, the Irish word for whiskey, translates to “water of life”. We are all learning things now! I don’t even realise but my final wish comes true because in the cab home Mr Bean crawls out of my suitcase and hands me another pint. I <3 London!