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The Gauntlet: Towers of London |
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It's a very comfortable world, guitar rock, a world now embraced by Sunday supplements and Mercury awards. The establishment likes guitar music as long as it's indie; it's like hold music for the new millennium. All very polite, very well meaning, very college. It's not likely you'll get to see some full on, in your face, rock 'n' roll danger, something a bit loose and chaotic. So thank fuck for Towers Of London. Already hated by the tut-tutting indie brigade, the band's in your face rawk ugliness and over the top posing strikes terror into the introverted British music scene. The fact that they get all those, "They can't play, what do they think they're wearing?" mum and dad comments means you know they are great already.
The London five piece spit attitude. They hit the stage like Motley Crue mashed up with the Sex Pistols. They play short sharp shocktroop songs and fuck off. The singer does all the Iggy moves but on speed, stomps along the bar and climbs around the furniture- it's fantastic, fuck you theatre and the rest of the band's rock n roll droogs pump out the martial rock n roll beats behind him.
The band have big time stamped all over them. It's a thrilling, dirty, lascivious, downright nasty exhibition of surly, strutting, in your face rock n roll attitude, and it's backed up with stomping slices of glam punk action. They used to be called The Tourettes; a post Manics rock 'n' roll rush, and their early pics looked like a gang of Richie Edwards on a glam punk night out. Since then the hair's grown and they've morphed into a feral poodle permed rock beast, but still retained some of that Manics edge in their felt-tipped sloganed vests. There is some insurrectionary fervour in their wild eyed posturing, some method in their madness.
Nothing will top this band.
That's a given.
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