Jamie T’s second album in two years is a punk, rap, pop and hardcore tour de force
CSS: Korova Bar, Liverpool, Wednesday November 15
Prepare to talk about bowels, sex, art holes and dance like a loon as Lovefoxxx and co bring Brazilian flavour to the ’Pool
Unless you’re some idiot, by now you’ll know all about her imploring us to lick her “art tit” and suck her “art hole”, as she rubs up against pounding grunge guitars on ‘Art Bitch’. You’ll have heard her vamping lusciously over Nintendo electro on ‘Alala’. But that’s nothing compared to the between-song banter tonight. “Talking of ‘art holes’,” she tells us, sounding like Brazil’s answer to Roy Chubby Brown.
“I had such a big crap before I came onstage, the ground shook!” Maybe they’re more open about their bowel habits in Brazil; whatever, from the moment Lovefoxxx is beamed onto the cramped basement stage tonight chanting ‘CSS Suxx’’s opening hypnotic mantra, she’s in a bubble; a little world of her own. A world that is smack bang in the middle of a sweaty throng of adoring Scouse fashionistas. Tonight at times it’s hard to distinguish her from her fans, as she hyperactively springs back and forth into the crowd, thrusting her arms in all directions like a demented cheerleader. It’s a vibe that she revels in: “You, my sweaty darlings…” she smiles after leading the throng through a boozy rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ for guitarist Carolina Moraes Parra, “…are a sea of love.”
Her bandmates, too, get in the communal spirit – switching between drums, keys and guitars like a bunch of amphetamine-kids let loose in a music shop, conjuring up an orgasmic electro-rock canvas upon which Lovefoxxx coos a melange of curiously fractured English coital euphemisms on tunes like ‘Music Is My Hot Hot Sex’.
After a sexually-charged set-closer of ‘Let’s Make Love And Listen To Death From Above’, the crowd are begging, panting, and demanding more. Blocking the exit door, they refuse to let the band leave without four encores. “We’ve run out of songs,” pleads Lovefoxxx as she crowdsurfs across the room, dusts herself down, heads backstage and (probably) clambers into a spaceship to head for home. And NME? We leave breathless, inspired and heading straight to Harley Street for ‘the chop’ and our next oestrogen injection.
Character studies and ready melodies abound in the latest record by the Oxford quartet
A battle-like record where fear and dread rule
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The Californian succeeds, once again, in exposing the ugliness of mankind. It’ll get under your skin