December 19, 2002
Ikara Colt : London ICA
Ikara Colt have their hands on the throat of the future. And they're throttling it.
Most bands faced with the prospect of playing on a bill this loud would have escaped out the back door by now, surrendering themselves to a comfortable life in accounts management. Luckily, Ikara Colt know that when you're wedged between the doped Stooge-rock of The Beatings and the feedback-vomit of 80's Matchbox B-Line Disaster, the only true way out is to SCREAM.
They still look incredible, like a hybrid of all the kids who got kicked out of their favourite bands for having an unhealthy obsession with electro-convulsive therapy: just check out bassist John Ball, who grimaces and spasms like this is his last gig before he gets sectioned.
The real thrill, however, is that Ikara Colt have made their throbbing electro-thrash rant even more intense. This is Sonic Youth detuning Mark E Smith's nasal hair - Claire Ingram rips noises from her guitar that defy Health and Safety. She's plugged directly into Paul Resound's adrenal gland, making him jolt and scream his way around the chaos of 'Rudd' and 'Sink Venice', songs so inherently perfect it makes you question the sanity of ever learning more than three chords.
Pretty soon, our government's going to be faced with finding work for an entire generation of sweaty-haired drop-outs with a CV boasting little more than A,D,G and a kick-ass pair of Converse. But here's one band that will not be joining them down the job centre. Because Ikara Colt have their hands on the throat of the future. And they're throttling it.
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