February 26, 1999
There's not a little of [B]H|sker D|[/B]'s molten, glistening melodicism laced through the bromide buzz of [B]'Crash'[/B], and the rancid, strychnine bluntness of[B] Big Black[/B] hums throughout t
All the world loves a story of heroes who never give up in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles, of ultimate triumph. Must be why Feeder are just so darned popular, because tonight, you'd think, wasn't their night.
First off, drummer John Lee broke his ankle at the weekend and is now playing his kit thanks to a hi-tech solution provided by '80s-electropap-legend Howard Jones (true!). Add to that the technical hitches which see new single 'Day In Day Out' suffer a stuttering false start and a mic stand which embarrassingly flops as guitarist/vocalist Grant Nicholas approaches it, and surely we have all the ingredients for a bathetic rock tragedy...
If you don't reckon on the gravelly resolve of Feeder, that is. Oh sure, decked out in fashionable togs and plastered over glossy rock mags like the chiselled hunks MTV would love to programme all day, Feeder might seem like powdery corporate pussies who should be throwing hissy-fits in such circumstances, but one roadie later all is right as rain and Feeder immediately get back to the job at hand. That, it transpires, is rocking the bejesus out of a refreshingly up-fer-it crowd who start pogoing at the opening sparks of 'Insomnia', and don't stop until the final screeing scrawl of 'Descend' winds down an hour later.
It's almost hard to believe Feeder have become this successful, borrowing so deftly as they do from the canon of acts all us hacks revere but who sell diddly squat. There's not a little of H|sker D|'s molten, glistening melodicism laced through the bromide buzz of 'Crash', and the rancid, strychnine bluntness of Big Black hums throughout the thrash of 'Cement'. And what's more, with touching slivers of emo-rock like newie 'Evergreen' up their sleeves, a rock landscape dominated by ver Feeds could be a very delectable sight indeed.
As the numbskull thrash of 'I Can't Dance To Disco' finally towers above the sweaty morass, you can sense the stubborn intolerance in the back of Feeder's throats for Satan's scaly pecker which means they won't be releasing novelty dance mixes to seduce breakfast radio doyennes. Feeder came here to rock. It's what they do, and they're pretty fucking good at it.
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