Questions about Fuck Buttons future may have been raised when a few years back Benjamin John Power took on the Blanck Mass moniker and began gigging and recording minus his Worcester buddy Andrew Hung.
Thankfully though it would appear Blanck Mass is simply another outlet for Power, which serves to act as a supplementary branch of the duo as opposed to a replacement.
For those turning up purely on the basis of Fuck Buttons rave droney cosmic vista madness, Power’s latest LP will likely not disappoint. Indeed as we are given a run through of Dumb Flesh there is an aggressive urgency which stacks up favourably even against the most mainstream of Fuck Buttons material to date.
He creates instrumental breakbeat minimal pulse music in a style that of course excels in headphones: intimately textural, sometimes melodic, beat-heavy.
To work in a space such as Stereo, it has to invade both ears and bodies, swirl and appear all around.
In addition to the tunes themselves we have a projection screen tonight to further dazzle our senses, there is realisation that those in attendance are about to enter an aural and visual extravaganza.
As a result we have a slight buzz in the air that sparks into a major applause when Power appears at the back of nine.
Opening number ‘Loam’ certainly helps get the crowd going early on; the excitement, enthusiasm and energy given creates in these first few minutes acts as a great catalyst for those in Stereo with everything powered through live mixing and a pulsating beat.
If anything one could argue Blanck Mass, on such form, has manifested a better experience in a live setting than via headphones, a fabulous dance-able meld of sweeping moves.
He manages to avoid killing the mood with no commentary whatsoever, which maintains the deadly industrial mix and hypnotic doom laden rhythms allow everyone to get carried away without interruption as we bounce to sheer synth noise.
Unlike some of his contemporaries, Power does seem to be genuinely enjoying a play through of his latest tricks, holding himself in a conductor like pose that is only abandoned on a couple of occasions to duck and reach for a glug of lager.
The gnarled electronic fuzz of ‘Dead Format’ complete with some bizarre backward sounding processed vocals is sinister synth at its finest and provides an emotional high for the set, as hands are raised high in the air it all feels a rather aggressive fifty or so minutes, almost grueling.
Grueling you say? Grueling in this context is no bad thing in a sphere filled with safe laptop loops we are instead treated to a succession of sculpted yet crunching beats, which veer towards the sort of rave territory that is so often sadly lacking.
This is the noise of euphoric, urgent electronica clashing slowly to rolling, distorted squall, all very close, loud and at times abrupt; saving the best to last; ‘Detritus’ slow burn eventually develops into a breathtaking galloping stomp with hazy twinkling echoes that wouldn’t seem out of place in the conclusion to a soundtrack of a certain dystopian screaming nightmare.
Rather than providing a nightmare we are left instead to scream for “wan more” as Power exits with a wave, again time for violent poor pogoing to end until our next cosmic encounter with either Blanck Mass or Fuck Buttons.
It should be noted prior to the above a man quite possibly revisiting nightmares via the medium of an onstage performance weegie type Apostille deserves a mention.
It is maybe what could have happened to Martin Gore of Depeche Mode fame in an alternate life without that man Dave, as a performance artist Apostille is certainly worth a watch.
He seems to relish being a one-man band screaming what sounds like corruption as he leaps from one amp to another amid warped ballads, which lean heavily on the melodramatic with a capital m.
‘Slurry’ is possibly the highlight of his short set a bizarre sped up rant recalling the likes of Suicide, shouting about being a “very important man”, while gyrating wildly on the floor and manipulating his own smoke machine, his set is simultaneously impressive and unsettling.
His physical performance overshadows the music itself, perhaps that is indeed the intention and while his brand of industrial punk won’t be welcomed by the masses I’m intrigued enough to check out this Michael Kasparis character further.
Words: Andy Quigley
Photos: Cameron Brisbane
