GIG REVIEW: Fat White Family @ The Coronet Theatre, 09/03/16

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Image souce: brixtonbuzz.com

In the history of rock and roll there has never been a more fitting union of band and venue. The Coronet Theatre’s squalid surroundings are the ideal platform for Fat White Family’s hellish interpretation of garage-punk. I’ve been to a lot of gigs, but never have I seen such a reaction to a band with a mere two albums under their bin-bag belts. To say they incite bedlam is like saying the United States dropped a little bit of Agent Orange on Vietnam. From Alpha to Zion, a dedicated crop of arms and lungs offer themselves to the Family’s every jab and bark.

Fat Whites stir devilishly primal emotions in a manner their contemporaries do not or are not interested in doing. Beholden to The Fall, The Stooges and The Velvet Underground, they’ve formulated an uncompromising brew of the unholy trinity, creating electrifyingly exciting music that screams ‘take me or leave me, I don’t care either way’.

Seeing them live makes you realise how tame they sound on record by comparison. Exhibit A, m’lud, is the demonically anthemic ‘Auto Neutron’. On 2013 debut Champagne Holocaust, frontman extraordinaire Lias Saoudi whispers ‘we are, we are, auto neutron, auto neutron’, lulling you into a false sense of security before gnashing your teeth. In the rotting flesh, Saoudi, who spends most of the gig topless, refrains from such impurities, instead lashing out at the chorus with guttural relish. Enraptured, the crowd responds deliriously, which continues unabated till the end.

‘Whitest Boy on the Beach’, lead single from 2016’s cacophonous Songs for Our Mothers, is a kraken’s clarion call from the darkest oceanic depths. Saoudi’s sneering and snarling are so refreshing, so energising to hear.  He thrashes about to guitarist Saul Adamczewski’s murky axe-work and Taishi Nagasaka’s nimble basslines, shattering, rebuilding then destroying the fourth wall by effectively becoming a crowd member. Feverish audience participation sums up the sense of community almost as comprehensively as the shower of what I hope is Strongbow in which I get covered.

The glut of filth continues with immoral abandon. ‘I Am Mark E Smith’ introduces a new generation to the Archbishop of misanthropy, its discordant clang faithfully echoing The Fall’s atonal dirge. ‘Touch the Leather’ loses some of the Nick Cave-esque thunder, becoming instead a twistedly uplifting sheet of Raw Powe-indebted noise. Legally questionable ‘Cream of the Young’ is respite in the same way Biology homework is from Quantum Mechanics. It’s a beautifully mangled tale of taboo antics, the sort of which has made them the music press’ arch-nemesis.

Cuts from Songs for Our Mothers are similarly delinquent. ‘Satisfied’ elicits total carnage; ‘Goodbye Goebbels’, on which Adamczewski takes the vocal reins, is the most perverse lullaby to which you’ll ever be subjected. Its lack of rhythm leaves foot soles wanting however, making it the set’s only misstep.

As the rabble slouch off stage, one cohort bellows something about class war into a microphone. Looking around, the Coronet is filled with the sort of pretenders Fat Whites despise, and to whom class warfare means nothing. Fat White Family are undeniably political, but their gigs don’t double up as trade union rallies and therein lies their strength: their deft approach to politics transcends class, age and even gender. They’re more dangerous, and by definition more intriguing than their contemporaries who just make quality music. A mixture of uncomfortable subject matter, heartfelt rage and a strong gang mentality has attracted many disillusioned young people and will continue to do so. Uncompromising is an oft repeated word in Fat White Family reviews, but never has it been applied more positively or deservedly. Judging by the crowd’s reaction, they’ve already changed many lives: the question is can they move from becoming an entertaining source of fury to instigators of radical change? Their own London Calling could well be on the way.

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