- Goat Girl
- Pink Kink
Taking a jolly from their Yorkshire home of Valhalladale, THE MOONLANDINGZ are out in force for the first time since the release of their debut album, Interplanetary Class Classics, and what a debut it is. Despite only having the last two days to listen to it, it’s been on repeat. Their last visit to Liverpool for Psych Fest was perhaps one of the most memorable sets of the weekend with a flurry of bucky, lipstick and glimmers of synthesisers shining through from the stage. They’re a drug – once you’ve had a taste of them, it’s very hard to wean yourself off.
Despite having asked specifically for a female support slot, there is no band of any gender alignment better suited to kick off proceedings tonight than the mighty PINK KINK. The Invisible Wind Factory is a difficult space for any emerging band to try and capture an audience due to the sheer size of the stage and the room it is encompassed in, but if any band is willing to take the challenge it is this lot. Having decorated the stage with underwear and papier-mâché penises, they well and truly mark their territory ready to tear the room a new arsehole. With the added space, they are able to crank up the volume making their screams, shouts and guitar riffs punch just that bit harder. Having added additional pieces to the occasional song, the band have transformed into a bigger more impactful beast, armed to the teeth with glitter, biting social commentary and a warrior spirit that’s hard to beat. This could well be the best show we’ve ever seen from them.
Having well and truly fired up the room (as well as both Johnny and Adrian from Moonlandingz), it’s time for something slightly more laid back from GOAT GIRL. The South London four piece have caused quite the stir having signed to Rough Trade before having even released a single. Their snarling music has a fierce tension within its almost horizontal exterior. With deadpan vocals and nonchalant guitars, they hypnotise the room with almost drunken abandon. It may only be a short set but they’ve certainly made an impression on tonight’s crowd.
With an insatiable greed for even more quality music it’s time for Johnny Rocket and his fellow debauchees to hit the stage. The Ziggy Stardust of a generation fucked over by shite government after shite government, Rocket is the voice of the hopeless, the disillusioned and the no longer so bright eyed, offering up absurdist escapism and venomous satire in equal measure. So, it’s no surprise to see the adulation at his arrival onstage equipped with a jumper cling film-ed tightly to his chest. There’s no messing about as they slam straight into their brand of psychotic disco which they’ve become so famed for. The crowd, a mass of writhing limbs, plastic flowers and spilt vodka and cokes, flow sporadically to the sound of ageing and crumbling futures pronounced by the onstage attack of Johnny and Slow Club’s Rebecca Taylor. The cool and collected presence of the pair breaks in moments of emotional outburst and ascends all the way to screamings of mania and complete breakdown. The air is filled with fun and careless abandon at the world falling apart outside. For just one night we can forget and dance to the reckless pop, and for that we can only thank them.