Kijuana

Playing live for only the second time at this “quality little venue”, Kijuana finds themselves where the crowd meets them. They’re the openers, and at the opening of their set, they play like they’re yet to take a breath. Literally finding his voice as though misplaced on the dance floor- Kijuana’s lead singer calls the crowd to stand closer. Then, an altogether silent shift in tone. There’s an element of telepathy to Kijuana’s playing style. They’re mouthing lyrics across the stage like a ritual closed when they strike the pre-chorus’ last chord. “It probably comes down to the fact that [they’re] mates first”. Having had access to “infinite band practice” beforehand, Kijuana lacks nothing in the way of synchrony. They’re fortunate to have a kitted-out home studio. Or, for legality’s sake, an overly renovated shed to rehearse in. “If it was a foot wider, the council would take issue”. Once Kijuana can transmute their confidence without the conduit of domestic privacy, Kijuana’s audience will hear just how effective it is when a new band takes time “[getting] chemistry just right” like this.

White Sugar Machine

White Sugar Machine self-describes as “avant-garde” “psych noise-rock”, and are undoubtedly accurate in their doing so. White Sugar Machine sounds like staring dazed into the mirror after a hypomanic haircut- and they look like it too. Bassist Isaac has turned up with a fresh mohawk-come-mullet, and in his “ex-girlfriend’s dress”. As such, one can hardly tell whether he’s coming or going. What’s important though, is that the band’s audience wants to follow him down the rabbit hole. White Sugar Machine’s members are mesmerists of the postmodern age. The basement venue is fashionably hotboxed; White Sugar Machine’s psychedelic fuzz is more than heard by the sensate. The feeling is of hot clippers still in-hand while music swathes like breath against the bathroom mirror. Before the set is halfway-through, half the band are suddenly only half-dressed. White Sugar Machine are to Royal Park Cellars what pseudoephedrine is in the wrong hands. The band’s vocalist sings with an inter-dimensional weightlessness, and rocks a tempted-to-reject anti-eyebrow piercing. Ones to watch, because listening only tells half the story. 

Threat Detector

An aneurysm of sound, Threat Detector “takes [their] name from” “the amygdala”- their lead singer “[working] in neurosurgery” and singing like the evidence of signs-of-life. Stylistically agonal and reflexive, Threat Detector’s vocal is thrown from the body at times ill-controlled in its ambition. The emotionally raw cracks and cries are reminiscent of an early emo scene. Nominatively ironic, Threat Detector are effortful with their delivery. So appreciative of their smaller audience, Threat Detector thanks each individual attendee and venue staff member; they are thusly “reminded of why [they] play”.

Godspeed 

With an “eclectic” “songwriting ethos”, tonight’s headliners- Godspeed, break down their influences. Everything from ‘yacht-rock”, to “Latin”, the band have come prepared in a way perhaps no other has. Informed to the point of overkill. Godspeed are “theory-based without sounding it”. Godspeed are an academic headache battle-scar; the physical embodiment of prior reading having successfully paid off. The band are just as deliberately unconventional in the minutiae of their own design; using tonight a “2/3 polyrhythm, backing in three and vocal in two”, “float[ing] B to A for [their] chord voicing”. When asked how they come to any type of agreement with such an expansive taste, one sees their biblical vision. It’s the Tower of Babel. Every band member sharing the same vision with a contextually foreign approach. Hence otherwise inarticulable, Godspeed’s formation was this: “who’s good at their instrument, and who’s sound as fuck?”

Relaxed, Godspeed plays comfortably in their familiar violence. Godspeed plays as if to intimidate their own sound. Fearless, imposing, unforgiving- overdriven on purpose. Lead vocalist practically falling over his own feet, the vocal on occasion falls just outside of the hit-box but well within the frame. Fretboards swung like weapons, a guitarist’s Ray-bans are knocked off by a flying headstock like they’d been set-upon in a rage-room. Godspeed strikes the delicate balance between idle predictability and self-indulgent convolution. They’re brilliant, and they’ve got the audience right where they want them. Someone please get the keyboardist on Dance Dance Revolution, don’t waste that footwork!