Guitars rev like greased jackhammers, rarely straying from the Stooges' sacred blueprint, while the band writhe through some obscene rock'n'roll ballet.
This is maximum rock’n’roll. Four Portuguese kids known to us as The Parkinsons moved to London and – living off a diet of grime, dirt and feedback – live to fuck shit up and leave a good looking mess. Guitars rev like greased jackhammers, rarely straying from the Stooges’ sacred blueprint, while the band writhe through some obscene rock’n’roll ballet.
Afonso – the fearsomely simian singer – leaps into the slamdancing crowd (having already broken two microphones) as a song called ‘Pills’ kicks in, kissing the boys and slipping his finger up the ladies’ nostrils. Mic cord wrapped around his neck, he bundles back onstage, only to bury his face in the crotch of guitarist Victor, who has finally stripped to the waist like the rest of his bandmates. ‘Bad Girl’ – perhaps their best song – sees Afonso swinging from the lighting rig, overseeing all manner of destruction, a look of utter glee on his face.
It’s a blast, but don’t call this punk-rock revivalism – The Parkinsons are out to destroy punk rock, and anything else that gets in their way. Which is the
right spirit, really. For style, sex-appeal and sheer dirty thrills, The Parkinsons are the UK’s snotty, messed-up answer to The Strokes. Time to get excited.