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| GIGS - 1983 |
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| RUBELLA BALLET
BRIGANDAGE Fulham Greyhound (November 13th 1983) OUTSIDE, THERE'S a queue around the block; inside the atmosphere is hot, sweaty and expectant. As soon as the action begins, the audience is transformed into a swirling cauldron of flailing limbs thrashing torsoes and bedraggled hairstyle's of rainbow hue. Outside, the bitter wind whips around ripped jeans and suspender-tops but, inside, the key-words are excitement and celebration. Brigandage are improving in dizzy leaps and bounds � most of them coming from the energetic cheer-leading of vocalist Michelle bedecked in top hat and tails. She has a style all of her own, not quite unique but refreshingly volatile and direct with elements of arrogance and apathy. Rough-edged and raucous. Brigandage whip through their 0set of raggedy-arse, gutter rock 'n' swagger (especially 'Fragile' and 'The Art Of Stealing') with a burlesque panache that still too often stumbles to a premature grinding halt of collapsing drum rhythms and guitar feedback � not to mention a broken bass string! It's invigorating stuff, though. Until now, the Ballet ballyhoo had always eluded me. My previous impressions (I do a quite good Adam Ant and a stunning Tommy Cooper!) were of speed-punk with no melodies! But all this was changed as ..soon as Rubella stormed the stage and launched into 'Ballet Dance', their last single, with a relentless, screeching chorus that tugs at your braincells. From there on, the music was cranked up faster and louder almost as though they on an old-style phonogram with a madman whirring away at the turntable! 'Love Life', 'Something To Give' and 'Exit' all whizzed by with the buzzsaw adrenalin rush that makes the Damned's 'New Rose' sound like 'Amazing Grace'! But Ballet's true strength and character � the qualities to set them aside from other faceless black-leather macho clones � is their versatility, as the closing 'T' rambles through a brilliantly subdued drum accompanirnent while flame-haired vocalist Zillah croons the chorus of "emotional blackmail ah ah" silhouetted by the Harsh strobe light. A stunning end to what had been the most exciting, vibrant punk gig since Decay's decay. JOHNNY WALLER (Sounds) |
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| RUBELLA BALLET
OMEGA TRIBE DORMANNU Brixton Ace, London THE POLKA dots, squares and triangles of shrieky madams Rubella Ballet are completely at home with their audience. An intellectual cut above the Oi-Polloi but not nearly classy and devotional enough to aspire to the iconoclastic wet dreaming of the common or garden Sulk Cult, these hippy punk children have evolved into the most tightly-knit of today's sub-cults. From a distance, they're a morass of dull veggy dyes, thrown-on Miners and home-grown giggles: a church of earnest partisans who couldn't afford a Rajneesh to deliver them from the humdrum of earthly existence but have settled for a second best of protest, piss-up and passover in Harrow On The Hill. Closer at hand, in Brixton's Ace, their resilient spirit and communal empathy is nothing if not touching. Dormannu however are not the sound of this particular crowd. The singer prances and poses in a red smock and wilting Yukka crop, much to the disgust of the serious few. An arid raunch of black and blue rock-funk, they take the intensity of Gang Of Four and Au Pairs and offer it a one-liner introduction to Kirk's towering punkodrama and even The Cure's melancholic jangles. Jack-hammered along on two bodybuilder drumkits - transmuting the pain of physical exertion into rippling muscle - Dormannu promise to find their feet very shortly. Now voyagers, go find your audience. Omega Tribe's guitarist could use a litre of hair gel, the bassist looks as if he's hiding locks beneath his trilby and the singer would probably get away with half price at the pictures, but their snotty, West Coast-ish (urggh?) protest pop is an instant winner with the watchers. Ostensibly just another (over)dose of puerile polemical parrots, the Tribe of Omega play with enough brattish enthusiasm and intuitive amateurism to coax a loving smile. Tempering two chord punk with fetching finger picking and politico molotovs with late '60s-ish r'n'b gutso, they sound something like The Jam would have if Mr Weller hadn't become so besotted with being pop's cerebral dreamboat and '60s Ambassador to the world. The only problem Omega Tribe face is being a No Future band with a future. Amrik Ra (SOUNDS) |
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| RUBELLA BALLET
RITUAL Moonlight Club , London THE MOONLIGHT Club has become an occasional gathering point for the anarcho-punk set. Established cliques wander around in a swell of crazy-coloured hair and ramshackle garb, sometimes inter-mixing with their peers although tonight it's too noisy and too packed for much socialising. lt doesn't matter. Here most of the quaint trappings of 'entertainment' such as dance, drink and conversation are superceded by a simple, almost desperate, desire for reassured existence. To be 'there' is enough and 'there'/here is the collective and public focus of a lifestyle that has narrowed its vision to exclude easy pleasure � are you with us or against us, it's as black and white as that. Let there be light but instead along come Ritual. This lot are a 'dark' band; part of, or rather a stylized reflection of the UK Decay, Sex Gang Children, Danse Society niche. But, whereas the aforementioned carve out some sort of hope in their blackness, Ritual, in their imitation, miss the point completely. Words like "disease", "crucifixion" and "decay" are thrown about so haphazardly that the whole thing quickly becomes ludicrous. The singer doesn't help either, he clenches his teeth, punches the air, and looks angry but there's nothing to get excited about here � unless you like heavy guitar licks. Ritual, as their name suggests, are a band who play out the old rock pretence; style without direction, myth without magic and form without thought. Rubella Ballet underline and undermine the extremes and opposites that are at play here with a bright bounciness that acts almost as an exorcism. Although firm anarcho favourites, a smile here, a skip there, a lot of energy all round and the rigidly drawn battlelines become blurred. Colours appear in all different shades and hues. With hearty, spirited and well structured songs Ballet encompass the day to day strife of love, politics, religion and some of the inbetweens. "Politics, politics � I'm so pissed off with terrorists, " is juxtaposed with "Help me mummy down the stairs" (from 'Belfast' � a song about the return of a wounded soldier from N. Ireland). Zillah the scarlet haired vocalist whoops � nothing is true, everything is permitted � breaking down the barriers. Rubella Ballet are a bright ray shining through a cloud of radical conformity. They show that there is more to punk than the Ritual stance of creative laziness and the myopic outlook of the rocksters. Richard North NME 82/83 |
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