Gig Reviews

BBC Tees reviewer Danni Jay

Last month they were grappling with stage invaders and cake-throwers, and this month they're battling with the elements.

It's a Monday night, in the middle of a blizzard, and tucked away in the Georgian Theatre is a small crowd illuminated by fairy lights and provided with a cake and a record stall.

If you didn't know better you'd think it was some kind of quirky Christmas Grotto.

The DJ plays Sonic Youth and The Stranglers and the dancefloor stays empty while people huddle and chat.

Killer Heels

The atmosphere remains cosy and relaxed...until Killer Heels take the stage.

Fronted by the swaggering illegitimate daughter of Steven Tyler and Celine Dion, this big voiced shrieking disco rock looks fun but feels superficial and out of context on a night like this.

Plagued by technical problems, they carry on regardless but fail to win the crowd over.

 I take the opportunity to visit the much loved cake stall, and find fanzines and Plan B magazines for sale alongside homemade ciabatta bread and fairy cakes, a welcome distraction from the wailing onstage which is now resembling Shania Twain.

Idiot Savant

A bizarre choice to play after such a dance floor suited band, Idiot Savant provide utterly un-danceable Fall-influenced dirges that sound more like a stoned Franz Ferdinand to the average listener.

 Lead singer Dan paces and meanders the stage, arms folded, chain smoking, crooning and lulling the audience into an appreciative coma, before snapping them out of it with a screaming shambolic noisefest of a last song.

The crowd have barely regained normal conciousness before Penny Broadhurst takes her bespectacled figure onto the stage.

A gesticulating delight, she engages the crowd with an intense set of poetry, but not before disclaiming 'I do apologise, all poetry is s***', and immediately dashing any misconceptions that there will be any drab pretentious recital.

Penny Broadhurst

She gives down to earth and often amusing stories behind each of her poems before performing them, getting the crowd involved in her topics which include a touchingly funny account of suffering dyspraxia , a rhythmic attack on bad twee indie bands, and a stunning display of the post-gig adrenaline feeling.

Beating herself in an orgasmic frenzy of words and sounds she has everybody transfixed, stealing the entire show and leaving a tough act to follow.

Local punk veterans Pellethead give their usual twitchy falsettos and shouty jerky weirdness, but they seem about ready for bed.

Pellethead

Not on their usual form, this reminds the crowd that its bloody freezing, getting late, and that bed and a nice cup of hot chocolate would be nice, and off they go.

Strangely enough the emptying venue seems to spur on the band, and just as they start showing their real energy, it's time to go home with a bag full of ciabatta bread.