Live Review

Tribal Munchies – The Roadhouse, Manchester

• 12th Jul 2010

Tonight is a trip to the Caribbean via the route of harsh, steely east of Manchester. The wrong direction perhaps, but there is much to be enjoyed on this musical tour de force as a glistening trio of bands pummel, pound and much else besides whilst softening up some of their rougher edges with fragrances smelt just by a few.

Lightly tinged with the theme Avanti have a slightly more acoustic start to the proceedings. As a flavour this would be paprika. Sharp, sweet and with a hint of zest that cannot really be described. Playing a solid rather elated set from their seemingly limited repertoire as time ticks on gently they muster the courage to go out with their own skin and play saxophone where the mosh pit would traditionally be, chasing the sweet nectar of success like a bee on a summer’s day. They have moments of joy, but limiting this to one or two no stays. Very little in the way of atmosphere is generated, but an excitable appreciative audience gratefully receives them.

Oldham’s very own The Crash Mats are have the meaty bass (Evil Bazz), similar to that of flame grilled sirloin steak as the chunkiness punches the stomach, says sorry only to do it again. They have a tender side, Believe Me contains the lyrics “I don’t like you anymore”. Social consciousness is not far away as a gracious hats off to those without a job gets a polished turn out. Aggression, fight, The Crash Mats have it all. It would be too easy to invoke the likes of Fugazi, Minute Men, Black Flag or even The Clash, there are hints, but no hindrances as the jerky, slightly skanky relentless guitar work from Danny ‘Discoteque’ Royales. Matty ‘The General’ P keeps everyone in line and in order as he beats the heart, or in less fancy talk, the drums.

When it comes to Tribal Munchies they do not so much stampede, but power walk. An interesting mix of ska and drum & bass, the frantic staccato beat does not really hold anything down in fact they are incline to knocking bottled water over rather than anything else. More tender fish than anything else, the oceanic didgeridoo is the forgiving highlight in a set that sticks, spills and waves over a sodden crowd that give rapturous thanks. Hardly surprising though. This is a last minute performance because of dropouts, Pressure Drop. Like a pendulum oscillating between the darn right bizarre to the purely manic and back through to mediocre. There was little time to practice as the limelight descends to them off centre stage. They shun such glory in favour of a deep dark mess of the jungle as Monkey Jam sets them off on an exploration few are likely to follow them on.

After so much promise, the end comes to an anti-climax. There is little atmosphere which, perhaps is the real disappointment. No one’s fault really, just a lack of enthusiasm keeps anyone from showing their true colours. Hopefully next time.