SO, HOW IS the psychedelic sci-fi surf-rock
scene in Wigan? It’s
very well, thank you. Wiganites
The V.Cs have a bit of a ‘thing’ for
1950s B-Movies and Sci-fi; so much so their beanpole lead singer (that’s
Vocoder Joe to you) plays each gig with outsized ski-goggles strapped
to his face, bass-siren FemBot-S4FF wears only PVC and Keyop-503 treats
his synth and theremin like a rare specimen of, like... space goo.
But let’s do the time-warp (I apologise) back to the start.
Manchester’s The Tides start rather inauspiciously, their widescreen Northern
Soul provides little thrill or irregularity, yet unhurriedly their sound gains
momentum, climaxing in resplendent Spiritualised-style crescendos. More interesting,
are the Daywalkers (named after the film-character Blade; ironically they didn’t
want a cheesy name), if they were door-to-door salesmen, their sales pitch would
go: ‘Hello, we’re Daywalkers. We play metal-riffs complemented by
seditious rap lyrics, we might sound like Cyprus-Hill’s brief lesion with
the rock-scene, but we do it much better, you know.’ and then they’d
throw a magazine into your face and tell you they’ll pick it up Thursday.
They’re certainly refreshing, and treated with astonished ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ from
the audience.
Sadly, it’s the final night for The V.Cs’ Specimen-11010 (the drummer
who looks like a panda), Vocoder Joe informs us that after the gig he’ll
be crushed up into a small cube and melted down or something. He shows not an
ounce of self-pity though, pulling off his hi-hat and stalking the audience,
gleefully leaping out and smashing his cymbals at anyone not paying full attention.
The V.Cs sound comes from Vocoder Joe’s Dick Dale guitar, whilst playing
he uses his stringy frame to bend into the shape of pretzels, setting up a pitch-perfect
pop backing of bass hooks and military drum patterns. The V.Cs are a bubbling
cauldron of Trompe Le Monde era-Pixies, The Cramps, and detatched DEVO-vocals,
they also boast the best song titles ever; such as ‘Ray Harryhausen Creates
His Perfect 12” Woman’. But your eyes are constantly drawn to Keyop-503
in his Persil-white laboratory coat; his brows consistently furrowed and lips
pouted in earnestness. He tinkles with his gothic-synths, does a little dance,
and if you’re very good, he’ll pull out his theremin (that’s
that little metal stick that goes ‘woooaoowoahhhhh’).
The V.Cs may seem too kitsch or cult for the mainstream; but their green, slimy tongues stay firmly inside their cheeks as there is enough sparkle and vibrancy to their music to allow for lengthy instrumental numbers that never smell of pretentiousness or masturbation. Whilst watching, you struggle not to think of tacky space-superlatives like: ‘out-of-this-world’ but The V.Cs are exactly what pop music should be; exciting, curious and unpredictable, clearly they’re the cure for all the self-important ‘angular’ indie hipsters that have become so humdrum. The V.Cs are so good you’ll want to shrink them down, put them in a jam jar and hide them under your bed so no-one can take them away. Simply put, they are astronomical. (Sorry).