Holy Fuck evidently aren’t concerned with doing things the easy way. Not content with ensuring the near-impossibility of accredited radio play, they’ve signed to Vice Records in the States, that bastion of all that is smug and neon-clad. They probably think wheelchairs are just too ironic, dude. Not scoring too highly on the pre-conception meter then.
But then what is the point of preconceptions if not to be utterly blown away by reality? For it turns out that Holy Fuck are not just deadly serious about their music, their performance, their name even – not a shred of knowing affectation is on display tonight – they might just be one of the most vital bands in existence today.
If this is the age of Neu-Kraut, and it looks like it might be, then Holy Fuck are surely leading the way in constructing the 21st century autobahn on which lesser bandwagons will inevitably ride roughshod. The overpowering live rhythm section lays an exquisite foundation of Neu!-style motorik beat and bass, allowing lead Fucks Graham Walsh and Brian Borcherdt the space to build and loop layer after layer of keyboard and sequencer squall. The vocals are more wisp and trail than anything resembling singing, delayed and fading and floating over the regimented chaos below.
They open with The Pulse, a monstrous blast of Germanic repetition that sets even the jaded scene-it-all Amersham Arms crowd on edge. There is a ferocious intensity about this band on stage, and yet their frowned concentration is counterbalanced by simultaneous involuntary dancing. This is electronic music, yes, but it feels like real live, human music, and it is. Holy Fuck only ever improvise around their songs on stage, there is no backing track grid hindering expression here, and they are all the better for it.
Storming versions of Frenchy’s and Royal Gregory follow, transforming the floor into a living and breeding mass of movement and spilt drinks, until the climax of the night is reached in spectacular fashion with the rising strings of the Final Fantasy-sampling Lovely Allen. A break-down and build-up that Godspeed would be proud of, a violin line of such tenderness that only mid-90s Spiritualised could match and an emotional punch that Sigor Ros can only dream of these days; then they’re off, unplugging and packing up their own equipment as they go. Holy Fuck – that was good. And not a neon keffiyeh in sight.
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