Los Bitchos - O
A few days ago, I casually mentioned to a friend that was reviewing an all-female band, and then immediately had cause to reflect on why I considered this something of note. I would hardly, after all, bother to mention that U2, Coldplay or Artic Monkeys only have blokes in the band. We like to think we've come a long way since Kate Bush and Annie Lennox took it in turns to win best female artist at the Brits, but I suppose there’s still an underlying patriarchal presumption which I’m guessing The Bitchos chose to take head on in their choice of name.
Before the headliner took to the stage, however, we got an unexpected treat in the form of pithily titled O. That's the letter O, not a zero, as saxophonist Joe Henwood was quick to point out. Together with Tash Keary on drums, the duo grabbed the evening by the scruff of the neck and didn't let go during their all too brief half hour set. It's often the case that the biggest surprise on the night comes from the support act - after all, you tend to know what you're getting with the band you paid out money for. That surprise can range from horror to delight - fortunately with O it was very much the latter. Henwood's command of baritone sax was well matched by the excellence of Keary's drumming, offering up a moody, cocktail of dreamlike melodies interspersed with frenetic passages of ferocious intensity. It was testament to the impact they made that the auditorium quickly filled, emptying the bar of an audience that had essentially come to see something else, but were won over by the duo’s musicality and charisma.
The various incarnations that Shabaka Hutchings inhabit immediately sprang to mind - as one overheard wag put it "This is like The Comet is Coming without the wanky bits" – and the pair certainly displayed a welcome economy and precision. That said, there were also pleasingly loopy moments that recalled the parping chaos of Hawkwind's Nik Turner, or even the sonic experimentation of Shorab Uduman’s early sax work. I can't tell you what they played, as they didn't say, and sadly it was t-shirts, not recordings, on offer in the bar, as they don't have any recordings available yet. I can say that, with no disrespect to Los Bitchos, who were as good as I already knew they would be, That O were my surprising highlight of the evening, and came close to upstaging the headliners.
The set from Los Bitchos revolved almost entirely around their debut album. Apart from a sprinkling of judicious covers, and a subtle shuffle, we got to hear pretty much the whole of Let the Festivities Begin! The explanation mark is theirs, by the way, not mine, and signals the band’s good time mantra that makes seeing them live absolutely essential if you hope to understand where they are coming from. Where they are coming from, incidentally, is all over the world – specifically Australia, Uruguay, Sweden and the UK – something that surely goes some way to explaining their eclectic sound. During their compact one hour set, we got to hear Argentine cumbia, Scandinavian pop, Anatolian rock and good old fashioned British punk. Yes, as everyone (not least their own press release) seems keen to point out, their surf infused sound would be a shoe-in for Tarantino's next soundtrack, but it seems to be they are far more inventive and original than the director's inclination to mine the past.
I’d be fibbing to pretend I picked out many tunes from an almost entirely instrumental set. Lindsay Goes to Mykonos was a standout tune – classic punk that weirdly teetered close to prog rock. Who knew that could even be a thing. I suspect the stately pace of I Enjoy It might be dropped when the canon fills out, but the funk flavoured disco of Las Panteras will surely be around for a long time to come. Agustrina Ruiz’s exuberant vocals on the set closer Tequila was evidence enough why they tend to shy away from vocals, but it was nonetheless a glorious finish to a live experience.
There is a gloriously unapologetic robustness to their line-up that defies naysayers. Dressed to impress in retro-style, they are also gifted with undeniable stage presence. Josefine Jonsson looked, moved and played like Talking head’ s Tina Weymouth (and I think of no greater compliment) insouciantly driving the music forward with Nic Crawshaw on drums. They left Serra Petale and Agustina Ruiz do the heavy lifting when it comes to rousing the crowd. Despite being oddly reminiscent of Angela Rayner and Rachel Reeves from the shadow cabinet (just me, then?) they bopped and swaggered and strummed with an irresistibly gauche charm that was unpretentious, unaffected and simply good fun.
