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Fingers-crossed Holy Fuck are gonna be the greatest band in the world ever. This is their first ever live performance and Gigwise wouldn’t mind living off a bit of the ‘I was there’ glory. Kinda like being one of the twenty-seven or so who saw The Sex Pistols for the first time. Okay, it would take some monumental shift in public perception. Out with the Coldplay, U2 et al, and in with a raucous blast of dirty, shambolic, occasionally ace, electronica played by a bunch of scruffy guys from Canada. Still, for a band popping their live cherry, they have a certain devil-may-care confidence and swagger. One can always dream.
First good thing about Tahiti 80: they are from France and don’t sound like Air. Second good thing: their lead singer looks every bit the Rock Star, with his Morrison curls, Buckley cheekbones and tight white t-shirt. Third good thing: they have a likeable, jigging, finger-pointing bass player, who is not afraid to don a panda hat and smash away on the drum-kit, like a comedy counterpoint to the stylised singer. And their songs ain’t too bad either. It is fairly formulaic verse-chorus-verse stuff, but with enough soaring melodies to hold the attention. Front-man Xavier Boyer’s voice may not be able to go through those Buckley somersaults - although obviously that is asking a lot from anyone - but he can certainly hold a tune. From the breezy rock of ‘Big Day’, to the great keyboard-driven ‘1,000 Times’, through to the glorious closing track ‘Changes’, Tahiti 80 display a keen ear for melody and a strong pop sensibility. Whilst they won’t seduce you or make you want to change your political beliefs, they nonetheless entertain with their crisp, bittersweet tunes.
Buck 65 is an absolute revelation. Coming across like a bizarre hybrid of Andy Kaufmann, Beck, Bill Hicks and a Beastie Boy, this one man DJ, rapper, comedian, beat poet and raconteur is something else. Armed with just a couple of decks, a laptop and a notebook (so he can remember all his new lyrics) he plays an ad hoc, improvised show, drawing largely from his “New York mix tape” (to which he constantly refers to with the cute charm of an obsessed music aficionado). With hyperactive glee he drags the crowd through a brilliant, eclectic set of bizarre hip-hop, awkward, ridiculous dancing and tales of small-town frustration. There is a song about a truck driver who falls in love with every waitress he comes across - ‘Temporarily In Love’ - there is a track inspired by the boredom of Saturday mornings in Nova Scotia watching wrestling on the TV and there is a rant about a friend to whom he had lent his record collection and the guy develops a crack habit and Buck 65’s pride and joy ends up in a second-hand market. Oh and there is a song about “telling Satan to fuck off.” Brilliant stuff. Finally, he saunters off stage, tossing glitter out of his back pocket like a wayward eccentric genius. The old cliché, but what a breath of fresh, crazed air.
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