a review of oxbow and harvey milk live at the underworld, left over from last year...
(image stolen from theoxbow.com -go there now, buy fucking everything)
always a treat to see the might of oxbow live, we arrived and were made positively tumescent by the prospect of a surprise support slot by part chimp. the somewhat bewilderingly friendly eugene robinson (right) sold me a couple of t-shirts and a cd, because of course i need more of both of these things.
part chimp came on and made a noise. a big fucking noise. we winced, we nodded out heads, we applauded. goodgood.
everything was going swimmingly until harvey milk came on. a somewhat inappropriate addition to the bill, if harvey milk were a short film then it would concern pot-bellied middle aged men striding bare-chested across mist-swathed mountain tops conversing with ancient and unknowable gods; if oxbow were a short film it would concern a man lying alone and naked in a shitty motel room in his own filth, screaming. hostess elisabeth: "harvey milk look like presenters from the open university". rock on. harvey milk appear to be the sort of band that are legendary in certain circles and if you haven't heard of them, as i hadn't, you clearly haven't been smoking enough dope or gagging for a pale, pseudo alternative, middle aged imitation of black sabbath and their ilk. perhaps that's unfair. but then perhaps it's not unfair enough.
anyhoo, finally oxbow come on and all is forgotten, and i do mean all. in an aggressive avalanche of cathartic ejaculate, their sound grabs us by the throat, body slams us and then proceeds to violate our most private areas. but in a good way. really.
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