Nemesis To Go - Live: Drop Dead Festival, Day 2

Drop Dead Festival
Day 2: Knitting Factory, New York City
Saturday October 29 2005

Bands in order of appearance:

Funeral Crashers
Secret Cervix
Scarlet's Remains
The Brides
Cult Of The Psychic Fetus
Rezurex
Cinema Strange

Back down to the Knitting Factory for day two of Drop Dead, and this time I'm determined to get there early. Last year, I recall with a certain embarrassment, I witnessed the Funeral Crashers' set, only to draw a blank from my memory banks when I tried to do the write-up later. Somehow, I couldn't remember a thing about the band.

This year, I've vowed to check 'em out properly, and as they're the opening act, that means a rush to the stage where the band are already playing. And you know what? They're pretty groovy, brewing up a minor storm of spiky post-punkisms, giving it plenty of intensity even though it's still early doors and the venue isn't exactly densely packed.

The Funeral Crashers are old friends of Drop Dead - they also played at the first festival, at CBGB in 2003 - and I'm a little bemused to find they're still in the opening slot three years on. I'd say a move up the rankings is definitely overdue - they've certainly got the chops to handle it.

Maybe the Funeral Crashers have fallen victim to that 'local band' syndrome. They're a NYC outfit, and thus are perhaps regarded as part of the furniture in their home city. They're so familiar nobody's noticed that they're good. But let the record show that, to the eyes and ears of this London geezer, they're a nifty proposition.

Secret Cervix shove us unceremoniously into the punk zone. They're an odd bunch to look at - the guitarist and bassist are in full-on spook-rocker gear, image overload all the way, while the vocalist, staking out her stage territory between them, is dressed down in smart-casual leisurewear. The lads look like they've come straight from a Hallowe'en costume fitting; the singer looks like she's come straight from the office on dress down Friday.

They make a suitably take no prisoners racket, the guitars crashing, the vocals a rasping roar. The set has all the right elements of strop and punch, but in the end the songs tend to blur into each other in a formless metalpunk blare. Meanwhile, the singer's throaty holler begins to remind me of Kittie, and I'm not sure that's a good thing. I think I'll pass on this lot, thanks all the same.

Like many other bands at Drop Dead, Scarlet's Remains are new to me. But unlike many other bands at Drop Dead, they come with a bit of a reputation, a few word of mouth reccommendations - I've heard them mentioned as a 'must see' act several times over the last month or so. Scarlet's Remains may not know this, but they're on the grapevine, and the word is good.

Now let's see how the band aquit themselves on stage. They're a bit of a supergroup in a way - Benn Ra (Diva Destruction, Hatesex) is on guitar, Tony Havoc (Voodoo Church) is on drums, they've been recording with Bari Bari (Mephisto Walz) - even before I've heard a note of the band's music, there's enough going on in the personnel department to get me interested.

Here they come, implacable in black. Centre stage, in make-up that seems to glow bizarrely in my camera flash, lower case vocalist eveghost walks a tightrope between amiable good humour and righteous intensity. Between songs, she's friendly and relaxed. Then the band cranks up a densely-woven wall of guitar (bear with my metaphors here, imagine you can weave a wall) and suddenly she's a raging storm of fire and brimstone. She's got a voice fit to warn ships off rocks, and deploys it with the focussed precision of a radar sweep.

It's an impressive performance, not simply for the sheer power of her vocals - after all, anyone can be loud - but also for that uncanny locked-on-target feel. As she scans the crowd with an accusing glare, it almost feels that whatever's roused her ire so much, it's all our fault. Yep, Scarlet's Remains live up to the hype. The grapevine does not lie. Watch out for this lot - if I was in the habit of tipping bands for the top, they'd be well and truly tipped.

Up on the balcolny, peering through suspended body parts, I get an all-encompassing view of The Brides as they stomp into action, wackily attired in blood-splattered white gowns and sneakers. Let me guess - the outfits are intended to be a humourous visual refence to the name of the band, right?

Well, as sight gags go, that's about as subtle as a steamroller, but then I don't think The Brides are at home to Mister Subtle. Not tonight, anyway. They throw out an unruly wake-up call to the assembled multitudes by way of some thrash 'n' bash punky-hardcore guitar, prodded along here and there by church-organ keyboards.

Strangely enough, the cool, spiky, sixties-garage-versus-new-wave stylings which normally come through in the band's music are absent tonight. All the songs seem to have been re-engineered as cheery, rifftastic punker anthems, bouncy and rambunctious all the way.

Sure, The Brides have always been a boisterous bunch, and there has always been humour in their approach, but for this show they have apparently reinvented themselves from stem to stern as a good-time punk combo. Their surreal, deadpan New York wit seems to have been replaced by gonzoid clowning. The non-stop mosherama tempo, the whacko costumes, and the comic banter between dual frontmen Corey Gorey and Gregjaw make the whole thing come across like a toga party in a frat house after a particulary disorderly bout of Halloween hazing.

It's all good fun, in a brain-in-neutral kind of way, but I confess I'm disappointed that the band have chosen to go for the harmless fun option with such overcooked enthusiasm. Hey, you Brides - next time round, make it a bit more Velvet Underground, a bit less Splodgenessabounds, y'hear?

And now, Cult Of The Psychic Fetus, a band with a large and keen following, if the way the crowd suddenly gathers is any guide. But I was distinctly underwhelmed by this lot at drop Dead last year: cliched, mid-tempo novelty songs about corpses and zombies, if I recall correctly, performed with all the stage presence of tinned food.

Let's see if the band has changed over the previous twelve months. Hmmm. Well, the singer is still doing the spooky suit and whiteface thing; his musician colleagues are still lurking, heads down and unobtrusive, towards the back. As ever, Cult Of The Psychic Fetus seem to be all about the singer. The rest of the band don't really figure in the show.

Not that there is a show, because for all the carefully constructed horrorshow image, the frontman doesn't actually do much. He just stands there and croons, essaying a simple pose here and there - now he'll lean into the mic, now he'll lean back. Now he extends his hand just so, now he clutches the mic stand. All this is exactly as exciting as it sounds, although for some reason the crowd greet every move with rapt enthusiasm, as if mightily impressed with his nerve and dexterity.

Meanwhile, the band loom behind him and trundle through their paces. Yep, the music is still the same, chugging along indifferently enough. One small moment of excitement comes during the song 'Corpse Bride', in which Cult Of The Psychic Fetus daringly shift into third gear and pick up the tempo a bit - and on comes an exotic dancer to flail around. It's DW Friend, drummer with The Brides, still in his blood-splashed wedding dress. Hey, get it? The song is called 'Corpse Bride' - and he's a Bride, all splattered in blood, like he's a corpse? Do you see what they did there? Oh, I can't cope with this level of sophistication. I'm going to the bar.

Rezurex I'm pulled back from the bar by Rezurex - a supergroup of sorts, containing, apparently, ex-members of Nekromantix and Tiger Army, although don't ask me who is ex of which. They look like a bunch of beaten-up psychopunx, but the sound is more neatly-trimmed and accessible than you might at first assume. The singer wears a mohawk and a painted half-skull face, but he's got the clear and vibrant voice of a movie hero, standing tall at the mic with a swaggering cool that's endearing rather than arrogant.

He exudes positive vibes - he don't want your negativity just 'cause you don't got nobody to love. The music ranges from melodious to fast 'n' furious, at times touching base with that vintage Gun Glub sound. 'Dia de los Muertos', a south-of-the-border stomper with tail fins, stands out.

Rezurex might initially come across as a fairly regular collection of punkoid rockers, but there's more than that going on here - even to the point of, dare I say it, a certain pop sensibility which gives the band a broader appeal than the mohawks 'n' quiffs niche audience. Interesting stuff, which, if the band want to give their career the requisite shove in the appropriate direction, I reckon could quite possibly bring some wider-world success.

Let us enter the world of Cinema Strange - that odd, shifting universe where six impossible things routinely happen before breakfast. Four of those impossible things now appear before us on the Knitting Factory stage.

Welcome, please, the gentleman players of the Cinema Strange experience, tonight starring Michael Ribiat as the squaddie, Daniel Ribiat as the ghost, and a special guest appearance of Graham Bonnet, lead vocalist with 80s chart-metal smashers Rainbow. Oh, wait, it's Lucas Lanthier in a pair of aviator shades. Well, he certainly had me going there for a moment. On drums, Danny Walker is attired in distessed black, just like a rock musician. Obviously a cunning double-bluff there.

The band tumbles into the music like they're falling downstairs, those tightly-wound basslines keeping the tension high, the vocals an overwrought wail. It's a set which wavers between the greatest hits ('Nightfalls', 'Catacomb Kittens') and certain no less great but somewhat more obscure numbers ('Unlovely Baby', 'I Remember Tendon Water').

Not for the first time, I'm struck by how far the band have come since their earlier incarnation as be-mohawked Batcavers. Now, they're surreal vaudevillians, a rock 'n' roll trickster troupe romping down a road somewhat parallel to that upon which the Tiger Lillies take their Brechtian perambulations. It'll be interesting to see how far Cinema Strange can progress along this tangent before their original fans - the deathrockers, the old-skool goths who originally latched on to the band because they were the next best thing to the Sex Gang Children - lose patience and look elsewhere.

Tonight's audience are not, however, prone to any such doubts. The band's reception is tumultuous, every song and move greeted with cheers. But time presses heavily upon us, and the set has to be cut short. A swift straw poll of the crowd, and 'Golden Hand' wraps things up.

There's no encore; the band simply bring things to a halt and politely take their leave. We're left with a certain sense of unfinised business, but there'll be another chance to catch the show - or, indeed, given that this is Cinema 'never the same thing twice' Strange we're talking about, more likely another show altogether - on the final day of Drop Dead at the Avalon club.

For now, let's get outta here. Bleary-eyed deathrockers congregate around the door of the Knitting Factory. Outside, the darkness is yellow with street lights. Manholes are steaming, taxis yomp over potholes. Distant police sirens warble amid the street-grid. It's just another night in New York City.

This way for...

Drop Dead Day 3

Drop Dead links

For more photos from the Drop Dead Festival, find the bands by name here.


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Drop Dead Festival Day 2: Knitting Factory, New York City Saturday October 29 2005 Bands in order of appearance: Funeral Crashers Secret Cervix Scarlet's Remains The Brides Cult Of The Psychic Fetus Rezurex Cinema Strange Back down to the Knitting Factory for day two of Drop Dead, and this time I'm determined to get there early. Last year, I recall with a certain embarrassment, I witnessed the Funeral Crashers' set, only to draw a blank from my memory banks when I tried to do the write-up later. Somehow, I couldn't remember a thing about the band. This year, I've vowed to check 'em out properly, and as they're the opening act, that means a rush to the stage where the band are already playing. And you know what? They're pretty groovy, brewing up a minor storm of spiky post-punkisms, giving it plenty of intensity even though it's still early doors and the venue isn't exactly densely packed. The Funeral Crashers are old friends of Drop Dead - they also played at the first festival, at CBGB in 2003 - and I'm a little bemused to find they're still in the opening slot three years on. I'd say a move up the rankings is definitely overdue - they've certainly got the chops to handle it. Maybe the Funeral Crashers have fallen victim to that 'local band' syndrome. They're a NYC outfit, and thus are perhaps regarded as part of the furniture in their home city. They're so familiar nobody's noticed that they're good. But let the record show that, to the eyes and ears of this London geezer, they're a nifty proposition. Secret Cervix shove us unceremoniously into the punk zone. They're an odd bunch to look at - the guitarist and bassist are in full-on spook-rocker gear, image overload all the way, while the vocalist, staking out her stage territory between them, is dressed down in smart-casual leisurewear. The lads look like they've come straight from a Hallowe'en costume fitting; the singer looks like she's come straight from the office on dress down Friday. They make a suitably take no prisoners racket, the guitars crashing, the vocals a rasping roar. The set has all the right elements of strop and punch, but in the end the songs tend to blur into each other in a formless metalpunk blare. Meanwhile, the singer's throaty holler begins to remind me of Kittie, and I'm not sure that's a good thing. I think I'll pass on this lot, thanks all the same. Like many other bands at Drop Dead, Scarlet's Remains are new to me. But unlike many other bands at Drop Dead, they come with a bit of a reputation, a few word of mouth reccommendations - I've heard them mentioned as a 'must see' act several times over the last month or so. Scarlet's Remains may not know this, but they're on the grapevine, and the word is good. Now let's see how the band aquit themselves on stage. They're a bit of a supergroup in a way - Benn Ra (Diva Destruction, Hatesex) is on guitar, Tony Havoc (Voodoo Church) is on drums, they've been recording with Bari Bari (Mephisto Walz) - even before I've heard a note of the band's music, there's enough going on in the personnel department to get me interested. Here they come, implacable in black. Centre stage, in make-up that seems to glow bizarrely in my camera flash, lower case vocalist eveghost walks a tightrope between amiable good humour and righteous intensity. Between songs, she's friendly and relaxed. Then the band cranks up a densely-woven wall of guitar (bear with my metaphors here, imagine you can weave a wall) and suddenly she's a raging storm of fire and brimstone. She's got a voice fit to warn ships off rocks, and deploys it with the focussed precision of a radar sweep. It's an impressive performance, not simply for the sheer power of her vocals - after all, anyone can be loud - but also for that uncanny locked-on-target feel. As she scans the crowd with an accusing glare, it almost feels that whatever's roused her ire so much, it's all our fault. Yep, Scarlet's Remains live up to the hype. The grapevine does not lie. Watch out for this lot - if I was in the habit of tipping bands for the top, they'd be well and truly tipped. Up on the balcolny, peering through suspended body parts, I get an all-encompassing view of The Brides as they stomp into action, wackily attired in blood-splattered white gowns and sneakers. Let me guess - the outfits are intended to be a humourous visual refence to the name of the band, right? Well, as sight gags go, that's about as subtle as a steamroller, but then I don't think The Brides are at home to Mister Subtle. Not tonight, anyway. They throw out an unruly wake-up call to the assembled multitudes by way of some thrash 'n' bash punky-hardcore guitar, prodded along here and there by church-organ keyboards. Strangely enough, the cool, spiky, sixties-garage-versus-new-wave stylings which normally come through in the band's music are absent tonight. All the songs seem to have been re-engineered as cheery, rifftastic punker anthems, bouncy and rambunctious all the way. Sure, The Brides have always been a boisterous bunch, and there has always been humour in their approach, but for this show they have apparently reinvented themselves from stem to stern as a good-time punk combo. Their surreal, deadpan New York wit seems to have been replaced by gonzoid clowning. The non-stop mosherama tempo, the whacko costumes, and the comic banter between dual frontmen Corey Gorey and Gregjaw make the whole thing come across like a toga party in a frat house after a particulary disorderly bout of Halloween hazing. It's all good fun, in a brain-in-neutral kind of way, but I confess I'm disappointed that the band have chosen to go for the harmless fun option with such overcooked enthusiasm. Hey, you Brides - next time round, make it a bit more Velvet Underground, a bit less Splodgenessabounds, y'hear? And now, Cult Of The Psychic Fetus, a band with a large and keen following, if the way the crowd suddenly gathers is any guide. But I was distinctly underwhelmed by this lot at drop Dead last year: cliched, mid-tempo novelty songs about corpses and zombies, if I recall correctly, performed with all the stage presence of tinned food. Let's see if the band has changed over the previous twelve months. Hmmm. Well, the singer is still doing the spooky suit and whiteface thing; his musician colleagues are still lurking, heads down and unobtrusive, towards the back. As ever, Cult Of The Psychic Fetus seem to be all about the singer. The rest of the band don't really figure in the show. Not that there is a show, because for all the carefully constructed horrorshow image, the frontman doesn't actually do much. He just stands there and croons, essaying a simple pose here and there - now he'll lean into the mic, now he'll lean back. Now he extends his hand just so, now he clutches the mic stand. All this is exactly as exciting as it sounds, although for some reason the crowd greet every move with rapt enthusiasm, as if mightily impressed with his nerve and dexterity. Meanwhile, the band loom behind him and trundle through their paces. Yep, the music is still the same, chugging along indifferently enough. One small moment of excitement comes during the song 'Corpse Bride', in which Cult Of The Psychic Fetus daringly shift into third gear and pick up the tempo a bit - and on comes an exotic dancer to flail around. It's DW Friend, drummer with The Brides, still in his blood-splashed wedding dress. Hey, get it? The song is called 'Corpse Bride' - and he's a Bride, all splattered in blood, like he's a corpse? Do you see what they did there? Oh, I can't cope with this level of sophistication. I'm going to the bar. I'm pulled back from the bar by Rezurex - a supergroup of sorts, containing, apparently, ex-members of Nekromantix and Tiger Army, although don't ask me who is ex of which. They look like a bunch of beaten-up psychopunx, but the sound is more neatly-trimmed and accessible than you might at first assume. The singer wears a mohawk and a painted half-skull face, but he's got the clear and vibrant voice of a movie hero, standing tall at the mic with a swaggering cool that's endearing rather than arrogant. He exudes positive vibes - he don't want your negativity just 'cause you don't got nobody to love. The music ranges from melodious to fast 'n' furious, at times touching base with that vintage Gun Glub sound. 'Dia de los Muertos', a south-of-the-border stomper with tail fins, stands out. Rezurex might initially come across as a fairly regular collection of punkoid rockers, but there's more than that going on here - even to the point of, dare I say it, a certain pop sensibility which gives the band a broader appeal than the mohawks 'n' quiffs niche audience. Interesting stuff, which, if the band want to give their career the requisite shove in the appropriate direction, I reckon could quite possibly bring some wider-world success. Let us enter the world of Cinema Strange - that odd, shifting universe where six impossible things routinely happen before breakfast. Four of those impossible things now appear before us on the Knitting Factory stage. Welcome, please, the gentleman players of the Cinema Strange experience, tonight starring Michael Ribiat as the squaddie, Daniel Ribiat as the ghost, and a special guest appearance of Graham Bonnet, lead vocalist with 80s chart-metal smashers Rainbow. Oh, wait, it's Lucas Lanthier in a pair of aviator shades. Well, he certainly had me going there for a moment. On drums, Danny Walker is attired in distessed black, just like a rock musician. Obviously a cunning double-bluff there. The band tumbles into the music like they're falling downstairs, those tightly-wound basslines keeping the tension high, the vocals an overwrought wail. It's a set which wavers between the greatest hits ('Nightfalls', 'Catacomb Kittens') and certain no less great but somewhat more obscure numbers ('Unlovely Baby', 'I Remember Tendon Water'). Not for the first time, I'm struck by how far the band have come since their earlier incarnation as be-mohawked Batcavers. Now, they're surreal vaudevillians, a rock 'n' roll trickster troupe romping down a road somewhat parallel to that upon which the Tiger Lillies take their Brechtian perambulations. It'll be interesting to see how far Cinema Strange can progress along this tangent before their original fans - the deathrockers, the old-skool goths who originally latched on to the band because they were the next best thing to the Sex Gang Children - lose patience and look elsewhere. Tonight's audience are not, however, prone to any such doubts. The band's reception is tumultuous, every song and move greeted with cheers. But time presses heavily upon us, and the set has to be cut short. A swift straw poll of the crowd, and 'Golden Hand' wraps things up. There's no encore; the band simply bring things to a halt and politely take their leave. We're left with a certain sense of unfinised business, but there'll be another chance to catch the show - or, indeed, given that this is Cinema 'never the same thing twice' Strange we're talking about, more likely another show altogether - on the final day of Drop Dead at the Avalon club. For now, let's get outta here. Bleary-eyed deathrockers congregate around the door of the Knitting Factory. Outside, the darkness is yellow with street lights. Manholes are steaming, taxis yomp over potholes. Distant police sirens warble amid the street-grid. It's just another night in New York City. This way for... Drop Dead Day 3 Drop Dead links For more photos from the Drop Dead Festival, find the bands by name here.
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Back to top	Page credits: Review, photos and construction by Michael Johnson. Additional words and ideas by Andi Jarrett. Nemesis logo by Antony Johnston, Red N version by Mark Rimmell.