The Infadels’ mission is simple and they’re not wasting anytime going about it. The plan? Take over the world with a seriously infectious strain of dance-rock. On the way, transform every venue into a mini-rave, and leave puddles of sweat on the stage and the dance floor at the end of each show.
There’s no crowd to steer through when we arrive, only the main bar is open, and chairs and tables are strewn around the venue. The thin-on-the-ground turnout is probably more a reflection of the specific appeal of the Infadels’ brash brand of electro-dance music than anything else. Infadels fans are more likely to be found in club-land than pub-land, cherry-picking Jagger 67 and Can’t Get Enough from the DJ’s mash-up. Fortunately, when they do bound onto the stage, the Infadels bring their own atmosphere with them by the bucket-load.
The unabashed Brit sensibilities of the band (behind them one of their amps is labeled ‘Gormless’) manage to rapidly unmask plenty of expatriates in the venue. They open with their hit single Jagger 67, and by the midway mark half the crowd have suddenly slipped into British accents. The boys are charmingly exuberant in their eagerness to win over the crowd. There’s not a hint of pretension, every muscle in their faces goes into it, everyone on stage appears to have access to their own microphone, and they’re all singing “I want you!” at the top of their lungs.
Is there a special formula for creating music that lands a kick smack-bang on the collective patella? There’s an undercurrent of some serious musical smarts running beneath the Infadels’ ‘gormless’ front. Drummer Alex Bruford is the offspring of Bill Bruford a member of the 1970s outfit Yes, and base player Wag Marshall Page is one half of the composing duo Banks & Wags.
Taking a minute to break down the madness, what jumps out is the well thought out hooks and exactingly repetitive lyrical structures. Lashings of guitar, vocals that smack of the Prodigy combined with rave worthy beats. It’s all timed with clockwork precision to produce dance floor mayhem, and manages to deliver nine times out of ten. While many bands of their ilk can be dismissed as one hit wonders, it’s a rare musical beast that can produce a whole album of them. Songs like Can’t Get Enough and Love Like Semtex manage to work their own charms, rather than reinventing the Jagger 67’ formula by degree. The pace only slackens off for a few numbers, Murder That Sound, and a hammed-up cover of The Raconteurs’ Steady As She Goes.
Frontman Bnann Watts goes solo for an acoustic number later in the night, and his crowd callouts show-off his impressive, even operatic, vocal range. Most of the night he’s a pit-bull up on stage, chasing down every beat, throwing his whole body into a dance routine that features robot moves, some high kicks and oz aerobic style squats. Richie ends the set on a head aching high; destroying an old style silver trash can with his forehead.
It’s this physicality that reclaims the Infadel’s songs from the stultifying realm of the DJ booth. The moment we’ve been waiting for, Love Like Sementix, makes everyone forget they’ve been on their feet bopping away for hours. It’s a blissfully dirty, sweaty and heart-thumping finale, and leaves everyone present is in dire need of a shower.
Mission accomplished boys.
