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Anyone who was expecting to see a rendition of Willy Russell's theatrical masterpiece was in for a shock. Seattle five-piece the Blood Brothers, a schizo- extreme camp punk phenomenon, currently offending eardrums of the fainthearted around the country with their album 'Burn Piano Island, Burn', have little in common with a hushed theatre audience. Howling, menacing, vigorous and persuasive, Johnny Whitney and Jordon Billie, the skinny, convulsing, figures thrusting themselves about the stage, are committing a dual-battering of the eardrums of everyone in the crowd. Scratching their way through your most saccharine dreams, the Blood Brothers realm is a world of discordant and fervent brash sound. "You don't need a doctor honey, you need a mortician baby," scream the Craig Nicholls sewn roughly together with Rumplestilktskin protégés on 'Jennifer'.
Like At The Drive-In with less politics and a dirty great bag of speed, or the Vines with the venom pumped into the lyrics rather than the stage wrecking, the Blood Brothers, though releasing their fourth album in four years, are showing little sign of slowing down. As is proved on the 37 second stroke inducing, headfuck of 'Guitarmy', battering the juddering swarm in front of them round the head. Jaggedy, and raw, 'Fucking Greatest Hits' goes straight for the throat, while last single 'Ambulance vs. Ambulance' jitters in post-overdose lunacy. Even a rendition of Queen's 'Under Pressure' is given the disorder treatment, with the brothers grim mincing and skipping in between bouts of feverish thrash-falling. In a world where punk seems to mean Good Charlotte style spikes, forced revolution, and a catchy muti-million selling hook, the Blood Brothers are here to bring the genre back down to street level. Spitting in the face of Blink 182, anarchy just got more extreme. The processed one size fits all world of punk is falling down, and it's all the Blood Brothers fault.
Photo by Thomas Toti :: thomas@gigwise.com
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