Factory Floor, The Invisible – Garage, London
The London noiseniks' fight music fails to set limbs in motion
Words Steph Kretowicz
As a queerly curated event of DJs and late band performances, tonight’s event at The Garage in Islington is a gig seen through the looking glass. ‘Surprise’ support comes in the shape of the heavyset Dave Okumu and his soul-pop hybrid The Invisible. You’d imagine there to be little in common between post-industrial headliner Factory Floor and the funk-infused solemnity of Okumu and co., but the overwhelming volume and hazy sound production of this particular set means an unintentional aural assault, in keeping with the noise theme of the night.
The groove of The Invisible’s Mercury-Prize nominated self-titled debut gives way to mostly new material, while the complexities and detail of their musical tapestries are lost in blinding lights and blown-out bass. Old track ‘Jacob And The Angel’ is one of few that manages to break through the sonic fog with its bucking funk rhythm. Drummer Leo Taylor makes it hard to distinguish who’s the human and what’s the sample in his man-versus-machine percussive duets (in a good way), while that marriage of the natural and synthetic worlds becomes the thin thread that connects The Invisible to the headliners to follow.
A delay in starting from Factory Floor ensures the audience is apparently well drunk by the time they get on with it at half-past-midnight. The opening beat goes by virtually unnoticed by the crowd front of stage; preoccupied as they are with a fight broken out between two bizarrely pallid-looking bohemians. Not to worry, though, because one of the three piece’s famously protracted build-ups holds is sustained throughout several bursts of aggressive energy by the angry young men. It’s an ideal backdrop for the contained violence that is Factory Floor’s distinctly techno-informed synth-noir repetition.
Elsewhere and a minimal 8-bit graphic projection, which looks like a cross between a smashed-up LCD screen and a Persian carpet, provides focus beyond the generally aloof and unmoving band members. There’s the odd intra-band smile, knob-turning and no-wave bass shredding with a drumstick by vocalist Nik Colk, while synth-operator Dom Butler gestures for a sip of her wine. Beyond that, it’s the exceptional live drumming by Gabe Gurnsey that offers another focal point for the audience, who appear equally impervious to the thumping rhythms and dynamic shifts of Factory Floor-as-dance-music. Presumably, the graphic backdrop is there to divert attention away from the band’s wont of charisma, but it fails to generate the physical reaction the swell of brilliantly crunching breakdowns and soaring crescendo pitches should inspire.
As the initially sizeable crowd slowly diminishes before a one-thirty finish, Factory Floor’s incredible potential as industrial music for the future on record just doesn’t translate live tonight.
