Off to the races:
leg over leg over leg; long lines of legs; tongues lapping air.
Post time. “No Nuts” is pre-emptive strike one. Two more and you’re out. You’ll be DOG FOOD if you don’t win this next lap. Hogtied and harnessed at Duindigt. So suggests the description of this raging saddled-up live document:
“We were pretty pumped to play…so we infused as much energy as we could into the improvisations. However, after finishing the first third of the set, we got the worst applause ever. What the hell happened? Were we sucking so hard? Fuck it, shit happens. Work harder during the 2nd section of the gig.”
Otto Kokke & René Aquarius unset the table, like disheveled servants ripping off the tablecloth at the banquet table, sending plates, wax candles, silverware, hot plates and tongs crashing to the floor in a ramshackle dining room in a ramshackle house, in anticipation of their guest, Nick Millevoi, who enters with revolvers spinning like a reckless hero, the kind of wrecking-ball hero who sets everyone at unease with his brash Chris Trull strums, the kind of hero you are glad is on your side, a guest in your house. Or are they his guests?
The trio does not generate typical dinner party chatter: the reed whines and honks; the crash ride spits buckshot and shrapnel; the guitar jitters and gnashes. Their sonic commerce is as smooth and flat, solid and sturdy, as the banquet table, a plateau. Or, as smooth and round, large and in charge, as the open mouth of Big Bertha.