The first act at the Workers Club is 18 year old solo artist Shoes in Bed. She plays instrumental keyboard tunes that display some musical skill, but seem more like background music at a restaurant than an artist the audience would pay specifically to see. This is furthered by the fact she positions herself front centre of stage whilst holding next to no interaction with the crowd. Certainly she has musical skill but she needs to work on her performance as a whole or else she will continue to come off like a music lesson recital.

The second act is Our Anatomy and while their performance is a tad more polished it is not enough to alleviate the fact that their music is just too loud. Don’t get me wrong I don’t mean to sound like an old man, I love loud music as much as the next guy, but simply turning everything up so that all the instruments are competing to be heard rather than unifying them is a problem. As I look around I can see more than one patron with their fingers in their ears. The band list Charles Bukowski and Jack Kerouac amongst their influences but I’ll be damned if anyone could actually make out discernible lyrics over all the noise. From what little I could make out the singer had a voice not to dissimilar to that of Benjamin Gibbard of Death Cab, which could have been quiet interesting given the nu-punk sounds of the rest of the band, driven by Joy Division style bass lines. Unfortunately this is really just speculation because all anyone could really hear was white noise.

The headliner and residency holder are A Dead Forrest Index. I am always cautious of two piece acts, especially those with drums and no bass however A Dead Forrest Index manage to create an instrumentally layered sound that belies their membership. They purvey minimalism as it should be, stripped back and musically subtle without being dull or gratuitously under blown. Sam Sherry’s understated drums lay a solid foundationm but it is his brother Adam Sherry’s voice that keeps us enthralled. Feeding his vocals through a loop pedal he creates melancholy harmonies. I would not be surprised if he had had some formal training as his range and control is quiet impressive gently luring us towards some unbegotten doom. His earnest morning suits his lyrics perfectly as he softly crys, “Echo, echo my unborn children’s voices,” in Anchoring the Hands. His voice adequately expresses the necessary emotion of his words.

He is lyrically more akin to a Victorian era poet than any contemporary I can think of except maybe Glenn Richards. So it would seem the Workers Club is the perfect venue for them with the audience sitting cross legged on the floor in hushed appreciation, surrounded by candles. There is a touch of grunge to both the guitar sound Adam uses and his vocals yet whilst they show their influences they are certainly not defined by them. A Dead Forrest Index don’t simply mix styles but come up with something more than the sum of its parts. Mid set they bring a Cellist on stage for Into the Flood who lays down a sound similar to whale calls. They close with the hauntingly beautiful Turning with Adam playing a harmonium before returning for a one song encore, Let All The Cogs Fall Out.

For such an unknown band the audience is sizeable and enthusiastic for more. I can not see A Dead Forrest Index playing large stadium gigs, and I think some part of their intimacy would be lost if they ever did, but I am sure they will go on to some form of artistic success or other in the future.