Gig Review: Fat White Family At Electric Brixton
In the pit of sodden clothes, a deep red mist emanates from the stage with a sound that curls under your skin. The spiritual homecoming gig from Fat White’s tour nails the mission statement of what became of the South London Post Punk scene.
Coming even from the years long stops on the Victoria line, two pre drinking cans cannot suppress the excitement and pensive atmosphere that every notable attendee brings to Brixton. The sun has set and a unison one track mind has a grip on all - Get yourself to the pub and into the venue.
Sinister grins and eager laughter ensue the theatre, the colosseum for Lias and co to engage in battle with a bustling crowd. Now it is worth noting that the vast majority are fully clothed and sipping on that can of lager that cost more than a pint at Windmill (or The Prince Albert) yet immediately once the scene setting music comes to a decrescendo - Cheers, whistles and cries erupt whilst both Adams and Alex emerge from backstage. The anticipation is overwhelming and purely unbearable however Lias’ commanding presence, strutting Aurelian folded arms and an announcing devilish half grin - Fat White Family are in full preparation to deliver divine and conquer to a sold out and begging audience.
The set list has either been written by a super fan or the band themselves had really made a spectacular choice, only fitting for the local area where it all started. Kicking off with the Champagne Holocaust classic, Without Consent, the crowd fills the room with a sultry sway, swaggering in tandem with the band’s motion until the punchy chorus kicks in - Virtually the only respite that could be achieved on this particularly novel Saturday night is due to the fact that it’s only just started, the anticipation? Paid off. The pre gig pints? Spilt or thrown in the air. (At least it’s cold and not a warm plastic hitting you)
Sweat drips from each fan’s brow, jumpers and T shirts are tied around or strewn across the floor as we are blessed with a star studded soundtrack for the night. The belief couldn’t quite be conceived once hearing the hard hitters and genre defining notes of I Am Mark E. Smith, the wholeness and beauty of Fringe Runner being proceeded into Whitest Boy on The Beach is a bold and elegant move which only teases the crowd into what is to come - Pure disbelief surrounds the faces but not from the sweltering heat and being beaten to a pulp in the pit, but the first ominous notes of Touch The Leather begin to sound from J Harmer’s guitar. Alex and Nathan rise the organs and the beat progresses into the iconic chug. ‘I can’t fucking believe it’ and ‘no fucking way’ were the two most common quotes, the notorious single and fan favourite erupted into crowd surfing (from a personal note, sorry if you got a boot in the head, I really did try!) and a full blown mosh. Joined by the wonderful and striking Róisín Murphy the fans had been served far more than their 30 quids worth, so far.
By this point you’re probably wondering how any of us are alive and as far as the crowd looked by now, it could probably be compared to the Tastes Good With The Money music video, well none of us were dismembered, however definitely battered and bruised, dripping wet and in pure elation for what had been experienced. Snapshot tracks from what is to come were received in high regards, Fat White’s efforts have not gone unknown and the possibility of releasing new material by the end of this year would be a major musical highlight, yet finalising the legend defining gig of Saturday night it’s a wonder how it could be done again and to live to tell the tale, it was sure that the post gig conversations lulled into a muttering of words, it’s hard to come down after such a marvel performance.
Closing the gig with two of their greatest hits, Feet and Is It Raining In Your Mouth the shock had been removed of them serving up the crème de la crème of their repertoire. Pure enjoyment and a certain aura of this moment never vying for an end. The outro of the latter could’ve been heard from Streatham Hill as the sound reverberated through our chests and recycled into lyrics from everyone’s mouths.
The party would not end here, as the promise of an all nighter would be kept, but it was known after creating a performance so professional as what had been experienced in Brixton from a band that had spawned and inspired so many others in attendance and acted as a gateway drug for many bands to form in The South London Scene from Children of The Pope to Deadletter, artists and poets, designers and models, this is the reward and inspiration to be known.