If on this black and rainswept night you were crawling through London on bruised knees, you should have found yourself drawn to the Clarendon, awaiting the onset of And Also The Trees. The Wonders of worcestershire were predictably magnificent, blowing out a fierce and frightening set. AATT’s music has grown from the dissident seeds of punk, blossomed through the bewilderment of post-punk and new wave, and set root in stranger pastures. They have honed their sound to a degree of near-perfection; a precise, individualistic, territorial music.
2722920006_a8487a80a7It is virtually impossible to accurately describe their music, save the placebo of labelling it the essence of debauchery. Debauchery, mind you, not sleaze. Annihilate the cock-strut, lambast, the lizard kings. Forget the little boy blues and impotent turkeys like Limahl. Eschew the opate of mediocrity, and allow yourself to enter the realm of the senses. This music is the milking of the witching hour. The boys are the real McCoy. The tragedy is that they rarely leave Malvern.
“The secret sea” parted the set’s lips, only to reveal a pearly row of raw and haunting songs which chilled the nape of the neck, and mesmerized all faculties of concentration. “Shantell”, their first single, tumbled out on languid, skeletal guitar, an abstracted bass, and Simon’s deep-throat hill-graven vocals which plummeted into a muscular chorus. “Tease the tear” and “Impulse of man” skewered the crawly-beast atmosphere of the execreable venue, making the evening an experience, rather than an enema. “Twilight’s pool”, an awesome and godlike song (Yes! Yes! -Live Ed), was cradled by a bewitching cat-thump bass and superbly sinuous acoustic guitar. Gonad of the Fortnight Award must go to the mixer, who succeeded in combining the insight of Conan the Barbarian with the manual dexterity of The Elephant Man.
The microphone suffered a major coronary during the encore, leaving Simon feeling somewhat foolish in the face of a perplexed audience. Groupies gawped, and he abandoned the stage in desperation. Justin shot Budge-the-bassist a startled look, and plunged into a most impressive break of fluid guitar, saving the song from an early death. If you are a dedicated hedonist, a sensitive and intelligent human being, bestowed with incredible magnetism and a pair of minces that would melt Maggie, you will go and see them. If you are an amphibian, a lumberjack, or suffer from acute sinusitis, you will simply buy their records. If, on the other hand, you are a pestilent, pustule-ridden, ignominous prat, you will ignore them. Marlon Brando, eat your heart out.