Damo Suzuki/ Vialka

How do I describe Vialka? If I tell you they're a duo, he on guitar, she on drums, both on vocals, you'll probably think "ah, White Stripes", but they're nothing like that, although they share a certain aesthetic that might be described as primitivist (although not primitive). Maybe if Jack and Meg had grown up listening to Magma instead of Led Zeppelin they might have turned out something like this, although it's impossible to imagine Vialka ever writing a song for a Coke ad. If I tell you their music spans genres from Eastern European folk through punk, jazz and Beefheartesque avant-blues, with the odd bit of reggae thrown in, you might imagine some sort of polystylist sound; but they never really sound like anything other than themselves. If I tell you that Marylise Frecheville wears a fantastically unconvincing blond wig and occasionally jumps out from behind her drum kit to dance in the audience while Eric Boros remains in half-shadow on the stage, encouraging us all to clap, you might have the idea that they're a "wacky" band; but there's a forceful sense of purpose behind what they do that is utterly compelling and has no trace of novelty (which doesn't preclude a wry humour coming through). The only category I feel the need to put them in (although they describe themselves as "nomadic turbo-folk") is "good music". They're one of the most distinctive and engrossing acts I've seen recently, and I commend them to you.


Having left the stage at the Spitz, Vialka come back, as this evening they, augmented by a flautist, are acting as Damo Suzuki's band for his latest appearance in London. It's a different atmosphere tonight to the last time I saw him; It's Sunday night, the audience is a sitting one rather than a dancing one, and there's the small matter of the curfew. So tonight's show is perhaps a more cerebral affair than that November night, which pushes towards a more reflective mood. What's remarkable about Damo's performances is the way that the musicians he plays with seem to absorb entirely into his vision, without ever losing their own voices, so that here we hear the sound of Vialka subtly altered to become something that is clearly of a piece with his previous performances, yet also unique. And next time, it'll be different again, an unpredictable, unrepeatable event with Damo at its centre, acting as the focus that draws it all together. What you can't fail to take away from any of his performances is a sense of the sheer generosity of his spirit.

Damo Suzuki

David Cronenberg's Wife want to be the Fall. They really want to be the Fall. Except for the bits where they want to be early REM. But the singer can't sing quite well enough to carry that bit off.

Kontakte take their name from a piece by Stockhausen, and have a heavy Eno influence. It's a bit like shoegazing performed by competent musicians, which is not meant as a sleight. They have moments that suggest brilliance. They need to have the courage to do less. The opening of their set was magical, then the drum machine kicked in and it became a bit more ordinary, albeit with flashes of magic.

I mention the support bands partly because they're worth mentioning, but mostly because members of them form Damo Suzuki's band. This is how he works: he turns up in whichever city he's performing in, picks up some local musicians, and then, in the fashion of a krautrock Mickey Rooney, does the show right here.

I'm being flippant. I shouldn't be, because this show was one of the best gigs I've been to in ages. I can't really describe it, because there's no set list, just a free-flowing stream of consciousness, the band flying while Damo sings, burbles and growls at whim on top of it all. It all ought to be a disaster and self-indulgent nonsense, but it isn't. It's magical. He's a shaman, and I find myself drawn into his sound-world, my mind in a trance, my body moving instinctively to the music. I feel as I think I might at some primitive ritual, where the sheer force of sound transports me from my physical existence to another plane. If you think this sounds pretentious, I don't care, really, because this is how it felt. It's primal, gutteral stuff, a relentless, hard rocking beat underpinning a welter of sound from guitars, one-string bass (a strange looking contraption that looks like a broomstick that's been strung and plugged in) and violin that's almost palpable in its intensity and volume (my ears rang all the way home). He played for an hour and a half, and I'd have been happy if he carried on all night. When he eventually draws the evening to a close (more at the behest of his band than any desire of his own, it seems) he is applauded rapturously by the audience. I'm at the front, and I get to take his hand, and bow to him in a gesture of gratitude. He bounds beyond me into the audience, and proceeds to hug pretty much everyone, as far as I can see. That doesn't make me feel less special. This is a man of huge generosity of spirit, and to him we're all special. This is the only show he's playing in this country this time, I have a feeling we'll all be back for the next one though.

Fuck it, this is how music should be.