Broken wrists and strangulation? Time to be afraid
Maybe it was when frontman Kiss Reid’s clingfilm-tight trousers began to peel down, revealing a flash of pink flesh confirming that, no, he doesn’t do underpants. Or perhaps it was the part when the more-than-a-bit deranged frontman ghoulishly glared into a girl’s face before winding her up into his mic cord and pulling her to the floor like a spider catching a fly. Whatever, at some point it became abundantly clear tonight: The Scare have come to Club NME to live up to their name.
From Australia by way of Birmingham, they specialise in a ground-up mash of Stooges-informed goth hardcore, presided over by a butt-crack wielding nuthouse-dodging singer named after the mega-brand glam band they gleefully nod towards. Raised in a junkyard and refusing all interviews, the man has a way of saying “Good evening, Stoke” like he’s telling us to go fuck ourselves. If Russell Brand had a secret brother who’d spent his childhood locked in the cupboard under the stairs, he’d be just like Kiss. And from the breakneck ‘She Loves The Copycat Victims’ to the garage-rock rush of single ‘Bats! Bats! Bats!’, this is terrifying. The Scare by name, The Make Club NME Stoke-On-Trent Cack Their Skintights From Audio GBH by nature.