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The Dogbones flyerThe Dogbones
Cunt Crusher

The Luminaire, London
Wednesday June 9 2010




'The floor is nice,' intone Cunt Crusher lugubriously, as if remarking on the decor. Well, The Luminaire is certainly one of London's more elegantly furnished venues, although, speaking personally, I've never been moved to appreciate the floor coverings.

But then, maybe Cunt Crusher view the world from floor level. There's certainly an air of low-life gutter glamour about this disdain-fuelled duo, as if their world is a perpetual morning after and they're blearily coming round after collapsing on the carpet.

The drum (there's just the one) crumps and thumps, the guitar rasps and clangs like some bizarre grindhouse blues, while the vocals are a pissed-off plaint throughout. Cunt Crusher have a song entitled 'You're Fired, You Suck' (that's about the extent of the lyric, too) which is equal parts attitude and brutal truth. It neatly encapsulates the band's art, in three minutes of blank-eyed bile and wormwood.

Cunt CrusherVisually, they're riot of slo-mo softcore porn movie moves: the vocalist, all fishnet and lace, drapes herself over the stage as if vogueing just came back into fashion.

Last time I saw the Crushers (or do the cool kids call them the Cunts?) I wasn't sure if I liked them or not. Well, now I've decided. Their caterwauling hauteur and minimalist impropriety is so wrong it's right.

I don't need to consult my inner oracle to find out what I think about Widows. I already know: their conventional muso rockin' strikes me as pub-rock tedium in a nutshell. For all the band's supposedly lowlife slither 'n' slide - they're alleged to have some sort of Bad Seeds-style blackhearted boogie thing about them - the truth is they're not mad enough or bad enough to make their schtick stick.

They are what they is: a bunch of pub-rock types having some cheery, undemanding fun. The singer's attempts at an American accent is particularly grating - didn't we fight the punk wars to get rid of this stuff? It's as if Widows harbour a secret ambition to be Little Feat, but mid-seventies throwback rock isn't my bag, so I'll go to the back and sit on the floor until they've finished. Did I mention the floor is nice?

Ah, now I can get up and shuffle to the front again, because here come The Dogbones. The night will now aquire an edge again, you see if it doesn't. If bands were sports, The Dogbones would be a stock-car race, especially the bit where the stolen BMW gets ritually T-boned by an Austin 1800 with a scaffolding pole welded to the front. The Dogbones don't stand upon ceremony, and they don't bother their heads overmuch with the small print in the rule book - which is, of course, exactly the right way to do rock 'n' roll.

Hurtling along on that double-trouble drumbeat, The Dogbones have their accelerator firmly floored and every needle is in the red: it's the only way to get there, don't you know. On guitar and manic grins, Crispin is wearing the same white suit  and Cramps T-shirt he wore last time he played The Luminaire with Queen Adreena (maybe it's his lucky outfit), but he sends splinters of guitar noise crashing off the over-stage mirror ball with even more aplomb.

The DogbonesVocalist Nomi was also present at that Queen Adreena gig, although at that one she was playing bass...and not painting herself green. Tonight, with the help of a glamourous assistant from the audience, and to the pummelling soundtrack of 'The WholeWorld Is Weird', she makes merry with the body paint - and somehow it all makes sense.

Weird is good. This we know. Weird is also relative in The Dogbones' world.

The Dogbones: MySpace

Widows: MySpace

Cunt Crusher: MySpace

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