Put on at midafternoon presumably to baffle the crap out of everyone who expected things to proceed in the same nice manner as before, Super Luxury were super fucking noisy. Delayed by an errant drummer lost to Leeds taxi services, once they started it was like a bomb had gone off. Squalling distorted guitar, rumbling bass and crashing frantic drumming; all was played with gusto and passion over technical ability for the most part, but it was all the better for it. At the end of the day, it was just damn fun in a similar vein to Pissed Jeans. And the singer. By God, the singer spends less time being a singer and more time working himself up into a frenzy and running around the room. If something could be climbed onto, crawled under or wriggled through he did just that. This included skating round on a wheeled case, going under the stage and getting stuck in Oporto’s distinctive portholes in the central wall. Very haggard, very awesome. All this was wasted on the somewhat nonplussed and at that point predominantly Gaslight-orientated crowd, but for those who dug it it was spectacular. Finishing caped in a Union Jack while letting off a confetti gun in one last Partridge-esque act of insanity, Super Luxury were insane, atonal and borderline incoherent, while also being the funnest band of the day.
Ta to Sam Coe for that one.
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