Chuck stuff’s awesome gallery is here

If someone told you that four long haired shit-kickers from the urban wasteland know as Mansfield would be touring the US and signed to a record label owned by Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore they would most likely tell you that you’re delusional. For Violent Soho their successes must seem surreal. Tonight is the first show in their hometown in a long time and the sell-out crowd inside The Zoo is glad to have them back. The amps have been certainly cranked, perhaps at times a little too much, but for a grunge enthusiast this is easily worth the meagre fifteen dollar entry fee.

I arrive as The Seizures are putting the finishing touches on their set. The immensely loud distortion completely overwhelms what little vocals are being contributed. The feedback of the guitars has a grating top-end to it. It seems unfair to judge the whole of the set after viewing so little, but there were a healthy number of fans at the front so clearly it wasn’t too off-putting, despite being a little hard on the ears. [Ed’s note: haven’t rocked out to grungy drums like that in aaages!]

The Butcher Birds are also sadly on the receiving end of an unforgiving PA mix. Whilst it turns their guitar sound into a crushing steam-roller of fuzz, the petite vocals of Stacey Coleman don’t have a hope of being heard. They only cut through when Kelly Lloyd from Screamfeeder hops on stage for a duet but then they almost become too loud. The three girls at the front cautiously eye-off their fret-boards which detract from their stage presence at times but their controlled energy is nonetheless engaging. When bassist Joanna Nilson claims she wants to ‘rip shit up’ it’s not really convincing. But the crushing breakdown at the end of the set fulfills her promises.

With the sound issues resolved Scul Hazzards decide to stray from the slower droning grunge numbers. Their feisty stop-start songs meld garage rock, punk and grunge into serving after serving of obliterating riffage. Steven Smith’s banshee scream is astonishingly loud and a few members of the audience grasp their ears. Drummer Leigh Fischer opts for a more polyrhythmic delivery, rarely keeping to a conventional beat. The band boasts a monstrothic sound for just a three piece with an equally captivating, raw, stage presence.

It’s not hard to tell that Violent Soho have an obsession with early nineties grunge. In the hands of less accomplished musicians their appearance alone would make it easy nothing more than a tacky gimmick. But the band have managed to make their style of grunge credible. From the angsty howl of vocalist Luke Boerdam to James Tidswell’s crunching riffs blasting from the amps, they’ve practically mastered blending catchy hooks and huge grating riffs down to a fine art. The eruption of energy they unleash as they begin with Here Be Dragons and Son of Sam would have most other bands floundering. This dynamic stage presence remains consistent throughout the whole set.

The band members thrash themselves around the stage as sweat drips from their bodies and their long hair swishes around in all directions. The energy of the band and crowd feeds into one another as cups, shoes and arms fly in all directions through the chaotic mosh. Even older audience members are reminiscing their youth and partaking. Middle fingers are raised high into the air during Muscle Junkie as the crowd bellows ”’Fuck you! Fuck you! I hate your face!’”

Michael Richards emulates early nineties Dave Grohl on drums, even if his technique at times, is shocking. How he manages to avoid exhaustion with such a stiff and rigid style is a complete mystery. This style doesn’t seem his for lack of ability, rather, it’s all for show. The unrelenting energy slows mid set as Boerdam grabs an acoustic guitar performing an intimate piece accompanied by a cellist. Whilst it alienates a few morons in the audience, who yell out a few patronising comments, most people are highly receptive to the change of pace.

The calm mood is shattered the sing along chorus of Jesus Stole My Girlfriend and things only become more anarchic from there. Punters leap from the stage as security tries desperately to stop them, with Tidswell’s own flykick keeping security at bay. The band blast out their cover of My Pal by GOD before their final song builds up to a face-melting climax, Boerdam throwing himself from the stage. The band has exhausted their repertoire of songs and most likely all their physical energy. An incredible, sold out set from arguably the bigggest proponents of the postcode 4122.