Saturday, April 16, 2005

The anti-Sufjan reports in

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Selfish Cunt scene report: (via Drowned in Sound's Gen Williams )

It's funny. Actually it's fucking hilarious, when you're watching the belligerent fucker push and assault and wrench savage kisses from the assembled boys and girls. As a slomo, bluesy bass note lingers poisonously while Tomlinson does his thing, it's performance art married to rock and roll. Then the crowd parts, and he's stalking towards you with intent, a predatory, murderous glint flashing in his eyes. He's a hair's breadth from you, staring you out, and everyone's watching. Cameras flash in your direction, and you feel a nervy, self-conscious thrill. You stare back, but he's pushing his face into yours, forcing you backwards. It's a battle of wills. It's not so funny anymore.

Tomlinson forces every person in sight to interact, to acknowledge, to react to him. The once-surly hipsters are pushing him, goading him, tussling with him in the flood of spilt beer and discarded clothes. Inhibitions dissolve; exhibition reigns. The Iggy of old crawls naked, usurped and fire-scorched at the back of the stage beneath a mesh of scattergun synthesised beats, while Tomlinson parades about in front wearing his crown, his affected yelps licking the sweat from Patrick Constable's filthy, dripping riffs. Those "controversial", "offensive" lyrics and incensed political direction are lost in the melêe. Selfish Cunt are a pure sensory experience, a deadly, transfiguring vampire bite. To the masses they're a joke. To the fifty or so people here, they're already immortal.


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