The world still turns, only just. The train winds its way into Waterloo, our peaceful city.
Negotiating the route to Camden through the tunnels of the Underground there were a number of people with blue and yellow placards, displaying slogans in support of and in defiance for Ukraine. There is a part of you that does feel a tinge of guilt, travelling to a showcase of Welsh talent in England’s capital, one that you only appreciate when you watch those go to protest and show solidarity to a country under siege of an illegal invasion.
There has to be light in these dark times and we are still free and able to enjoy ourselves which we should not take for granted.
First up is, Yaz Mean, a Cardiff based rapper who started out as a battle rapper, and you can see why. She spits vitriol like a python scorned. She takes no prisoners but in between tracks she is funny and self deprecating. Perhaps a genre not well known for coming out of South Wales, she has a well arranged multi media display behind her that raises her performance.
Up next, Tara Bandito, who is a star in the making. Starting on her own, she plays two stripped back songs with drum pads and guitar, helped by a loop pedal and a brides vail, but when her band arrive, she comes alive. This is more than a gig; this is a theatrical SHOW. Most artists lose articles of clothing due to the temperature rising on stage, under the lights, instead Tara adds clothes, sparkling trousers and jacket, happy hardcore smiley face hat, pink “shades”. It is in one way cabaret, but not in a shit cheesy way but in a glorious 21st century flamboyant style, culminating in a song about Unicorns “If you rain on my parade, I’ll fuck you with my unicorn horn”
Following that was going to be tough, but Clwb Fuzz have a way with a noise. Coming on like a hybrid Jesus and the Mary Chain having a wrestle with early Smashing Pumpkins, the wall of Jazzmasters blasts everyone’s ears to smithereens. They are perhaps a little incongruous alongside their peers tonight, but those in attendance have very little skin on their faces and their lugholes are either side of them in a pool of melted tendon.
Minas don’t so much pull the punches as grab you by the balls before the ref has split you at the glove off, and lead you round the ring showing you everything that is wrong with the world. Its as if Rage Against the Machine had smashed up Tom Morello’s guitar and tied Zac de la Rocha up in a basement and roped in a really pissed off Mike Skinner. It is brutal but disconcertingly life affirming, as if Sleaford Mods had charisma and musical ability.
Out the front of the Roundhouse, the upstairs comedy awards have spilled out. Everyone is just that little bit pissed, slightly less than three drinks drunk. Everyone has “smashed it” everyone was “amazing”. Maybe if everyone was like that the world would be a better place.
