Starlite Desperation - Mean Fiddler, London, 10/6/2004

  by Philip Vincent

published: 13 / 6 / 2004

intro

Monterey, California's Starlite Desperation recently reformed and played their first British tour in several years.Emma Haigh watches them play an electrifying and powerful set at the London Mean Fiddler

The Mean Fiddler is a perfect venue for a night like this, as gritty and snakelike as the bands that play here. Sun wouldn’t have seen its insides since the last time the building met a demolition crew; the air is rank and tense with years of sweat and frothing adulation. After five minutes, even sitting in the upper echelons of a well-concealed balcony, I’m already drenched. The sheer naked energy that permeates hypnotically from the stage is as electrifying as it is exhausting. Like watching a marathon. A marathon led by chiselled Jagger-esque posturing and narcotic fury of a lewd whirlwind of dirty garage rock and smutty pipe-legged blues. Drawing from the swaggering visceral panache of the Stooges, the heady nocturnal vernacular of Television, and the acerbic trashiness of (pre-1975) Stones, Monterey's Starlite Desperation exudes crunchy street rock at its finest. Dante Adrian swings splay legged on the edge of a precipice of thick black amps, getting so close you can smell him. The way he hurtles wildly about the place you think he may well crash face first into the sea of jogging fans. Jeff Ehrenberg’s casually rabid pummel clatters at break-neck pulses, branding each song the way drums were intended. Casey Geisen’s sweaty pallor gleams and collapses as he fiercely and lovingly throttles the neck of his bass, while guitarist Brock Galland chooses a more subtle caress with an intensity that belongs in a field of battle. From ‘The Gold Rush’ to ‘Mona Lisa Snake’ to ‘Notes From the Drag,’ they drive and chase over their stage, pushing their throbbing instruments against each other in a dance that’s almost vile. For the last number, what was formerly known as a ‘stage’ becomes a boundary-less feast. Any surface strong enough, and some that aren’t, are heavily, gracelessly manhandled. Second guitarist Dana Lacano lolls frenetically against the monitors, thrusting on long booted leg skywards as he physically chokes out splendid riffs, before leaping up and staggering sideways. Adrian, near on sapped, croons this last song from the floor with his back to the audience, drinking in his band around him. To be sure, I leave feeling utterly filthy. Yeah, I loved it. The Mean Fiddler is a perfect venue for a night like this, as gritty and snakelike as the bands that play here. Sun wouldn’t have seen its insides since the last time the building met a demolition crew; the air is rank and tense with years of sweat and frothing adulation. After five minutes, even sitting in the upper echelons of a well-concealed balcony, I’m already drenched. The sheer naked energy that permeates hypnotically from the stage is as electrifying as it is exhausting. Like watching a marathon. A marathon led by chiselled Jagger-esque posturing and narcotic fury of a lewd whirlwind of dirty garage rock and smutty pipe-legged blues. Drawing from the swaggering visceral panache of the Stooges, the heady nocturnal vernacular of Television, and the acerbic trashiness of (pre-1975) Stones, Monterey, California's Starlite Desperation exudes crunchy street rock at its finest. Dante Adrian swings splay legged on the edge of a precipice of thick black amps, getting so close you can smell him. The way he hurtles wildly about the place you think he may well crash face first into the sea of jogging fans. Jeff Ehrenberg’s casually rabid pummel clatters at break-neck pulses, branding each song the way drums were intended. Casey Geisen’s sweaty pallor gleams and collapses as he fiercely and lovingly throttles the neck of his bass, while guitarist Brock Galland chooses a more subtle caress with an intensity that belongs in a field of battle. From ‘The Gold Rush’ to ‘Mona Lisa Snake’ to ‘Notes From the Drag,’ they drive and chase over their stage, pushing their throbbing instruments against each other in a dance that’s almost vile. For the last number, what was formerly known as a ‘stage’ becomes a boundary-less feast. Any surface strong enough, and some that aren’t, are heavily, gracelessly manhandled. Second guitarist Dana Lacano lolls frenetically against the monitors, thrusting on long booted leg skywards as he physically chokes out splendid riffs, before leaping up and staggering sideways. Adrian, near on sapped, croons this last song from the floor with his back to the audience, drinking in his band around him. To be sure, I leave feeling utterly filthy. Yeah, I loved it. The Mean Fiddler is a perfect venue for a night like this, as gritty and snakelike as the bands that play here. Sun wouldn’t have seen its insides since the last time the building met a demolition crew; the air is rank and tense with years of sweat and frothing adulation. After five minutes, even sitting in the upper echelons of a well-concealed balcony, I’m already drenched. The sheer naked energy that permeates hypnotically from the stage is as electrifying as it is exhausting. Like watching a marathon. A marathon led by chiselled Jagger-esque posturing and narcotic fury of a lewd whirlwind of dirty garage rock and smutty pipe-legged blues. Drawing from the swaggering visceral panache of the Stooges, the heady nocturnal vernacular of Television, and the acerbic trashiness of (pre-1975) Stones, Starlite Desperation exudes crunchy street rock at its finest. Dante Adrian swings splay legged on the edge of a precipice of thick black amps, getting so close you can smell him. The way he hurtles wildly about the place you think he may well crash face first into the sea of jogging fans. Jeff Ehrenberg’s casually rabid pummel clatters at break-neck pulses, branding each song the way drums were intended. Casey Geisen’s sweaty pallor gleams and collapses as he fiercely and lovingly throttles the neck of his bass, while guitarist Brock Galland chooses a more subtle caress with an intensity that belongs in a field of battle. From ‘The Gold Rush’ to ‘Mona Lisa Snake’ to ‘Notes From the Drag,’ they drive and chase over their stage, pushing their throbbing instruments against each other in a dance that’s almost vile. For the last number, what was formerly known as a ‘stage’ becomes a boundary-less feast. Any surface strong enough, and some that aren’t, are heavily, gracelessly manhandled. Second guitarist Dana Lacano lolls frenetically against the monitors, thrusting on long booted leg skywards as he physically chokes out splendid riffs, before leaping up and staggering sideways. Adrian, near on sapped, croons this last song from the floor with his back to the audience, drinking in his band around him. To be sure, I leave feeling utterly filthy. Yeah, I loved it.

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