“Full of wankers” appears to be the Barfly's ground state. Tonight, though, is verging on the ridiculous. If you've ever had to endure a lengthy rant on the subject of “fucking art students” and felt that it was perhaps misplaced or inaccurate, you would do well to check out this wretched hive of scum and villainy.
In all the excitement and confusion of actually having to get somewhere on time, I somehow managed to miss Bad Dancer. I'm sorry, Bad Dancer. You are probably lovely. Less time spent waiting for Data Panik, though, can only be good.
This is because Data Panik are
blinding. They're quite possibly the most entertaining band in the world, hurling out electro-tinged indie power-pop like it had once been in fashion and was now in danger of going out of it. BiS were fun. Data Panik are fun times five. An explosion in a fun factory. Amusement and pleasure falling down a flight of stairs, whatever. Downright fucking enjoyable.
Depressingly, everyone just stands around watching. How anyone could
not move while Data Panik are playing is beyond me, but there you go. Manda Rin pogos enthusiastically behind her keyboard, the band play their arses off with some cracking, bouncy tunes, and everyone nods and claps politely at the end. Ach.
Minimum Wage and forthcoming single
Control the Radical are particularly good, but it's difficult to pick highlights from a set so short that it's
all highlight. Data Panik seem to spend longer clearing their stuff off the stage than they do playing. They have to make about six trips, though, Manda Rin at one point lugging a box which is apparently full of Powerpuff Girls.
And that's Data Panik away. Whatever mad genius is playing tunes between bands puts
Stagger Lee on, neatly dividing the crowd into ‘people who are enjoying Nick Cave’ and ‘people who aren't any good’. The latter group seems to dwindle as sweaty bodies crowd up to the stage, getting all excited about Chicks on Speed.
Quite suddenly, there they are, in riotously colourful dresses made out of tape and product labels and bits of rubbish. “CHICKS ON SPEED!” bellows a deep, synthetic voice, over and over again. Just for a moment, it is glorious. Then it all goes slightly pear-shaped.
We're three songs in before Chicks on Speed realise that caterwauling and banging wallpaper scrapers together might not really be going down all that well. Then they remember that they possess a drum machine, and that said drum machine contains beats capable of
slaying mankind.
Once the performance art has some solid tunes backing it up, it all becomes a lot more palatable. It's somewhere between electroclash and utter chaos, with megaphones, mutant Theremins, and aforementioned man-slaying beats. The entire club seems to throb up and down to
99 Cents and
We Don't Play Guitars, tracks with more obvious pop sensibilities buried under the shrieks and wails. When
Euro Trash Girl finally gets wheeled out, it's a rare face that's not being split by an enormous grin. The air is electric.
So of course there's an encore. And it's only slightly ruined by the worst cover of
Warm Leatherette you're ever likely to hear. Seriously, spend four minutes sitting in the bath blowing bubbles and occasionally shouting “Warm Leatherette”, it would sound much better. Why couldn't they have played
Give Me Back My Man? Can't win 'em all, I guess.
It's with a heavy heart that I make a speedy exit once the show is over. Deathkill 4000's Dirty Marc is spinning tunes upstairs, and I've still got a lot of adrenaline to burn off. The place is jam-packed with scarf-wearing bastards, though, and the air has the scent of so many competing hair products in it that it's becoming difficult to breathe.
The day belongs to Data Panik, really. They're never far away. Go see them whenever you have the chance.
http://www.baddancer.co.uk/ http://www.datapanik.co.uk/ http://www.chicksonspeed.com/tv.html
