Βι¶ΉΤΌΕΔ

"Ok, so we're from Aberdeen, apart from me, the English guy, oh, and our bass player is a local here". Now this may be an attempt to minimise the amount of abuse that would be thrown at them following the football earlier in the evening, but this crew of plucky Brits are called Kartta, and despite some problems with their internal sense of geography, they obviously haven't failed their music exams. Before scarpering at the end of the evening, on the excuse of having a ferry to catch, they have rampaged like the Vikings of old, borrowing equipment, doing a bit of shock-and-awe, then escaping into the night. It starts off relatively indie, then realising they're bored with this, twists into something far more interesting, leaning on the instrumental, with at times relatively sparse lyrics, shimmering, arty, delicate and fragile while still having strength, more rapier than broadsword. It turns out to be a quite short set, or it might just be I was enjoying it too much, but they promise a return fixture for Lafaro over there.

"Evening folks, we're gonna try and struggle through this on volume alone".

So entereth Lafaro. And so exit, running as fast as they can, our poor eardrums. Kicking off with the quite frankly evil 'Tuppenny Nudger', we're violated by the bludgeoning guitar, but in a way that is not entirely unpleasant. 'I Knew A Girl' continues the assault before running off like the demented offspring of Black Sabbath and the MC5, as brought up in Seattle. They even dare to drop in some barbershop harmonies, before taking Dylan's old instruction and playing it loud. Their punky, scratchy, grungey, metally, music is about as subtle as a kick in the teeth, and as the gratifying as the bottle of tequila you abuse as impromptu anaesthetic when you spit out the rest. Conjuring up the old spirit of bands like Mudhoney, Tad and the Melvins, it grabs you by the balls, and don't let go.

"Hello, officer? I'd like to report an assault..."

William Johnston