Trash Fashion and Ghost Frequency @ Barfly - LONDON KICKS - Fashion, Music, Art, Film, London and Going Out

May 12, 2008 at 15:53

Its been a while since I was last in Camden, it’s been even longer since I’ve been to the Barfly. The queue tied twice round the outside of the venue and made me feel old enough for it to have been a Wham gig.

Inside, the venue sweats like morning toast on marble with teenage hormones churning thick as butter. First up, Maths Class. I am told they aren’t quite good enough to propel their so called “Math music” to fame, and although their digits seem competent the routine is formulaic and this appears to be true.

Downstairs Trash Fashion loiter near the bar, and I watch amused as a portly youth puffs up his chest and prepares to compare bum fluff with the guitarist. I begin to understand why the bands top friends on Myspace includes “Groupies of Trash Fashion” and wonder what would happen if Tom, lead singer come Oxford endorsed Maths Tutor turned up to teach any of these pre pubescent’s algebra: if the sight of his drum stick sends them into fits of clammy joy one assumes the sight of his calculator would reduce them to a state of orgasmic glee.

Mockery of their following aside, the band themselves are lovely. Predominantly from Birmingham and with more than a pinch of personality borrowed from Sir Osborne himself their claims to “be in it for the music” seem earnest enough. Self professed counter fashionistas they have no fear of falling foul of this mantra so long as Kohl and denim remain in Vogue. NME called them “Self consciously now”, and their intriguing cover of Simian’s Mobile Disco would adhere to this review. Their set is fast and frantic and then from the middle of the crowd explodes some sort of spontaneously combusting cardiac arrest. I haven’t seen a mosh pit like it for, well at least the last band: “Ghost frequency” whose stage was usurped by a brigade of youths brandishing braces and red bull tinged energy. The bands are tiered; they pack up their stuff and head for the hills. The audience too, head home in the back of their parents Volvo, sweaty and satisfied already conjuring up words of praise to publish on Myspace the next day.

Words: Didi Mae

London Kicks 2008