Melt-Banana @ Deaf Institute, Manchester, 12 Jun
Your writer comes to this gig knowing virtually nothing about Philadelphian punk outfit Mannequin Pussy (other than their name, which suggests maybe we should be a fan). And what a wonderful surprise, as by the end of their set we're left feeling invigorated and uplifted by their sound, the sonic equivalent of a rainbow being refracted out the arse-end of a tornado. Mannequin Pussy imbue a cool confidence as much as they spew audacity and irreverence, which creates a push and pull tension in the air, as band leader Marisa Dabice throws shapes which lend a tenacious physicality to their performance.
Dabice's voice roars like a toad under c-section sans meds – it’s a beautiful rage that cuts through their wall of sound, migrating from shoegaze to hardcore in a series of swift and violent metamorphoses. We wish we had Mannequin Pussy when we were 18. We wish they were our friends. We know who they are now, so it’s only onwards and upwards from here.
After such a great opening act to set the tone so perfectly, it’s time for the main attraction. It’s been seven years since this writer's last encounter with Japanese noise-rock legends Melt-Banana and it’s safe to say that we had our minds blown right open back then, falling in love with the spectral bombast of Tokyo’s greatest noise-cosmonauts. Tonight it’s just the two core members – Yasuko Onuki (vocals) and Ichirou Agata (guitar). Forever humble they grace the stage; Agata in his iconic surgical mask arms himself with a Gibson SG, as Onuki wields a hand-held and colourfully lit sample pad, using it to shoot imaginary lasers into the crowd (sound effects provided by herself and Agata’s guitar). We have now entered the game of Melt-Banana, weapons have been chosen. 3, 2, 1…
The grinding bass chugs from Shield For Your Eyes, A Beast In The Well On Your Hand kick in and the venue immediately takes off. Mosh pits form with the ensuing tide of programmed blast beats, screaming guitars and Onuki’s hypodermic yelps. This pace is barely relinquished throughout the set, neck muscles only growing stronger with each sequential headbanger. If an outsider were to judge the music purely on the audience's reaction, one might mistake it for an aggressive display of machismo, but it’s quite the opposite.
Melt-Banana are the rattle shaking above the crib, as their infantile offspring gleefully bounce off each other, energised by the positively charged protons fired out of Onuki’s sample pad. There’s a brief respite for pleasantries before playing a cover of The Specials' classic Monkey Man, which is as silly as it sounds on paper, but it becomes clear that it couldn’t be more apt.
Melt-Banana are the heroes of noise; their code is one of positive explosive energy that constantly chases that frontier of fear and excitement, reawakening the child in us all. May they continue to ignite the universe with their pandemonium.