ON A FRIDAY
The Venue, Oxford
Terrible name. Apt for beer-gutted pub rockers, perhaps, but ill-suited to the astonishing intensity of this bunch. On A Friday swing between uneasy calm and crazed desperation, hinting at extremes that belie the just-got-paid/let's-get-pissed overtones of their moniker. Like Kingmaker, they've opted for the rock-as-catharsis principle, exorcising demons at a rate of knots and steering well clear of anything approaching frivolity.
Their angst-ridden paroxysms frequently depend on their sheer volume - without warning, piercing screams will fly from the stage while the band pound their instruments. Within seconds, they'll revert to a disciplined, razor-edged mode, revealing a schizophrenia that gives songs like 'Stop Whispering' a frightening volatility, furthered by the frantic movements of their singer; a diminutive, close-cropped young man whose jerky demeanor sums up On A Friday's screwed-up appeal.
They leave us with a speeding hymn to megalomania entitled 'Nothing Touches Me' - a perfect example of their manic-but-melodic charms, and an indication of credible self-confidence. "Promising" seems something of an understatement.