The Masters Musicians of Bukkake, Rose Kemp and Team Brick

The Croft Bristol , Thursday 23rd July





Team Brick smothered us in a noise tarp, the margins all torn aluminium and poltergeist clatter… broken beats and mangled rhythms - melody bypasses of the highest order. Full on, then artfully retracted, shifting the focus into some superb Islamic chant / carpet bombed rant, feedback swung into bottom end squalor… my ears were bruised appendages …The sax sucking at the microphone - a belch of booming drone… cymbals and drum were in there at some point, then the most haunted of voices bloomed outwards, deep, bassy, gloriously rich, a mantra that descended into some hysterical broken throat duels with the Casio keys … Probably the best show I’ve seen from the man so far…










Rose Kemp’s guitar was a pure animal – an enormous sound, gnashing it’s teeth to the caustic abyss surrounding it… her cackle and smart erupting from between the words… her brow a knot of intent, that jackal edged riffology flirting with instability and disjointed exchange…the pick ups like hyenas chewing bottles, the vocals a crow pecked eye, cut-up on smeared psychosis …a vibe I could easily bury in my neighbours garden to hex his Coldplay addiction. An unrecognizable Cardiacs cover was in there amongst the tunes; totally miss by a disappointed Team Brick … something no amount of heckling could resurrect. A solo set of shadow craved bitter fruits.








The Masters Musicians of Bukkake were as mystical as they were doom mongering; the dry ice turned all candy floss under the lighting, the players dressed as beekeepers, presumably fumigating the hive. Visibility was a slash of abstracts; sounds became as fluid as the curling smoke. Tibetan and Indian caresses, bells falling in unison, then duel drums kicked out a spine for the three guitarists and Korgster to follow.



A yeti like front man climbs the stage, his matted hide piercing the pinkie whiteness, a strange perfume seeps up the nostrils, the silhouetted figure moved in Sasquatch slowness with alien vocals that fall out of an unseen mouth… a ritualised weasel creaking in ancient archaeologies …





then they hit the groove and it was transportation time where motion was the only logic, Charlie’s head disappeared in the fog like a whittled obelisk, as Paul’s was transformed into a shimmer of double exposure. Contour shaken, the music sucked at us, forging a contract in toppling notation and lush drumming… a strange unison that was incredibly addictive, a druggy codex of polarised bottle bottoms and curved distortion, to which we were just puppets hanging off the ever embroidered repetition. In two words - Absolutely amazing!