Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster : Middlesbrough Town hall
Pyschobilly mentalists go north...
Eighties Matchbox make a brutal, flea-ridden racket that sounds like Viking raiders smashing up Birthday Party records with massive cudgels. This is when they're not making a noise like [a]Black Sabbath[/a] smoking [a]Iggy Pop[/a]'s bones or velociraptors gnawing on Robert Smith's fat face while [a]Jesus Lizard[/a] point and laugh. Unless you're the kind of person who likes to accompany the assembly of flatpack Ikea furniture with a glass of chilled Chardonnay and a low-volume airing of the new [a]Keane[/a] LP, you should make a place for them in your life immediately. If you are this person, you should probably just wander off alone into the woods and never come back.
Tonight, as they spew their toxic brew across the stage, whipping the likes of 'Mister Mental', 'Celebrate Your Mother', and recent single 'I Could Be An Angle' into demonic shards of bright white noise, Eighties Matchbox provide conclusive proof they are on a noble crusade to save rock'n'roll from being suffocated by its own politeness. Singer Guy McKnight spends the majority of the set trying to bridge the divide between fan and performer, as well as knee and shin, by repeatedly jumping into the photo pit, while his cohorts serve up a wall of sordid filth. Make no mistake, if Elvis' hip thrusts left the right-wing conservative swine threatened by the lewd, crude implications of rock'n'roll, [a]Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster[/a]'s fuzzy flourish of evil noise would leave them shitting their skewed notions of morality through their bloodied crapholes. This is what rock'n'roll was always supposed to be, namely, a revelation. Tonight [a]Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster[/a] show Middlesbrough the truth and the light and the all-encompassing power of the rock. Kill your parents, Eighties Matchbox are your family now.
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