Narc. Magazine Online
Reliably informed
Caleb Carter enjoys a night of brutal tension and visceral vibes courtesy of the thrilling Tropical Fuck Storm
Image by Adam Dom
Sparring close-quarters with Tropical Fuck Storm is an entirely different fight. My in-ear relationship with the obscenely named punk groovers has always been one marked by a volume button whose ceilings cannot break high enough. Live at The Cluny, however, I am pleased to report that their scuzz is an enveloping, many-armed seabeast, that seems to erupt from Gareth Liddiard’s body as he fries it into vocal contortion, and Fiona Kitschin’s guitar like it is a badly bruised broomstick.
The beautiful, green and pink violence that is so viscerally felt from Tropical Fuck Storm doesn’t come from a kind of cold disrespect for their audience or each other, but rather a brutish, pummelling tension that is reliably, lovingly released into warm, smoggy hugs. I leave the show with a felt sense of community – though one that was anything but gentle – rather like a rugby team facing down a match they knew they would lose, or an army cleaning their tools in the mess hall, or a band of friends from the other side of the world who have known each other for over twenty-five years, still losing their shit on stage.
