My Tiger My Timing
Thwack! Thud! Smash! Tinkle!
It’s rather quiet in here tonight. The only sound is that of the barman practicing his cocktail skills, tossing bottles up in the air. And failing to catch them. Brush! Sweep!
Some while later a band appears. They are My Tiger My Timing and they have brought the funk. And the pop. And the sheer ‘bloody hell’ of seeing an act that is this tight and assured in a venue this small.
Sometimes slickness can be a disadvantage, robbing songs of emotion and making it hard for band and audience to connect; but not so with this lot. Right from the opening number I find myself shuffling from one foot to the other and nodding as though I have known these tunes for ages and am not just hearing them for the first time.
All eyes are on singer Anna Vincent, who bosses the stage with the authority of a Scottish school mistress. She possesses and easy assurance, sometimes dabbing at a keyboard, sometimes grabbing the microphone to stalk the stage.
MTMT deliver songs such as I Am The Sound and This Is Not The Fire with a light-footed dexterity that shows that their natural environment is the dancehall rather than the moshpit. The tunes rumble along on bass lines that are reminiscent of a disco-fied heavy goods vehicle. It a bit Talking Heads circa Remain In Light and a whole lot of stop-bloody-analysing and just shake your junk.
The only momentary lapse of cool comes when keyboard player Sebastian surreptitiously cracks open a tin of lager which sprays all over him.
My Tiger My Timing. My pleasure.
Headliners Plugs have also been hit with the rhythm stick.
This three piece are so bass-heavy that when we heard them rehearsing while sat downstairs earlier we thought that people were moving furniture.
Singer Morgan is having problems with his vocals this evening. His voice keeps cracking and popping and he apologises for sounding as though he is going through puberty. As it is, the band veers far too close, too often to the works of Mr Gordon Sumner for my comfort.
Plugs are certainly energetic, and I am here partly because they were recommended to me – but I find it very hard to get into them. They are certainly going over well with the rest of the crowd, and establish a good rapport. Maybe I’m just funked out.
However, despite the possible shortcomings of the main act, I’ve enjoyed one very fine band today, which is all that I could ever ask for. It’s been a Good Friday.
It’s rather quiet in here tonight. The only sound is that of the barman practicing his cocktail skills, tossing bottles up in the air. And failing to catch them. Brush! Sweep!
Some while later a band appears. They are My Tiger My Timing and they have brought the funk. And the pop. And the sheer ‘bloody hell’ of seeing an act that is this tight and assured in a venue this small.
Sometimes slickness can be a disadvantage, robbing songs of emotion and making it hard for band and audience to connect; but not so with this lot. Right from the opening number I find myself shuffling from one foot to the other and nodding as though I have known these tunes for ages and am not just hearing them for the first time.
All eyes are on singer Anna Vincent, who bosses the stage with the authority of a Scottish school mistress. She possesses and easy assurance, sometimes dabbing at a keyboard, sometimes grabbing the microphone to stalk the stage.
MTMT deliver songs such as I Am The Sound and This Is Not The Fire with a light-footed dexterity that shows that their natural environment is the dancehall rather than the moshpit. The tunes rumble along on bass lines that are reminiscent of a disco-fied heavy goods vehicle. It a bit Talking Heads circa Remain In Light and a whole lot of stop-bloody-analysing and just shake your junk.
The only momentary lapse of cool comes when keyboard player Sebastian surreptitiously cracks open a tin of lager which sprays all over him.
My Tiger My Timing. My pleasure.
Headliners Plugs have also been hit with the rhythm stick.
This three piece are so bass-heavy that when we heard them rehearsing while sat downstairs earlier we thought that people were moving furniture.
Singer Morgan is having problems with his vocals this evening. His voice keeps cracking and popping and he apologises for sounding as though he is going through puberty. As it is, the band veers far too close, too often to the works of Mr Gordon Sumner for my comfort.
Plugs are certainly energetic, and I am here partly because they were recommended to me – but I find it very hard to get into them. They are certainly going over well with the rest of the crowd, and establish a good rapport. Maybe I’m just funked out.
However, despite the possible shortcomings of the main act, I’ve enjoyed one very fine band today, which is all that I could ever ask for. It’s been a Good Friday.
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1 comment:
I saw Plugs before Hunx & His Punx the other week and I thought they were terrible, but then I do like my melodies.
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