The DeathSet at Hoxton Square Bar and Kitchen
July 22, London: Expat Sweat.
Words By Lucas Atkin Photo By Lucia Graca
Heading to the Hoxton Bar and Kitchen to hear The DeathSet I found myself unusually apprehensive. Having heard tales of an impromptu gig outside a female Portaloo which calmed an audience of rioting lesbians at a gay pride march, I wondered how far from stage was a safe distance. I needn’t have bothered: my cautious entrance was wasted on the crew setting up in the middle of the floor. While not to the same extent as Warren from the Vandals – who jerked off into a (surprisingly) grateful audience member’s face — The DeathSet breathe new meaning into the phrase “in your face.”
With no song breaching the two and a half minute mark, the band produces an unashamedly authentic continuation of old school punk, evoking acts like the Buzzcocks, CircleJerks, Black Flag, and Minor Threat, albeit with a welcome dash of lo-fi electronica underpinning thumping, adrenaline-driven beats. There was even a hint of The Go! Team — minus the horns — in the DIY mix of overdriven Casio and frenetic guitars.
Despite a reluctance to look back at a Down Under heritage, the group, who swapped the apparently uninspiring surrounding’s of Australia’s Gold Coast for a punk-squat-love-in in Baltimore, brandishes an unmistakable trace of surf punk. Tracks like “Intermission,” “Around the World,” and “Impossible” delighted a small hardcore following, including some fellow transatlantic passengers, in their powerful simplicity.
The band, fronted by pocket rocket Johnny Siera, has built up a formidable reputation for must-see gigs. Whether seen as a hyperactive blast of chaotic affirmation or as a bunch of kids with undiagnosed A.D.D., fun without pretense is the order of the day.
Siera and co-founder Beau Velasco saw less and less of their mics as the show went on, with audience members screaming “whoah-oh” choruses that Dexter Holland himself would have been delighted to have penned. A 50-strong audience isn’t normally a fertile atmosphere for a circle pit, and at times the gig resembled an unplanned frat party where three drunken friends fancied their chances.
If you want an exhibition of careful musical craftsmanship which takes itself necessarily seriously, don’t bother. But if it’s a night of simple body-flinging, chorus-wailing and shirt-drenching sweat you’re after, then take note.
[Note: the above image is from The Secret Garden Party. We’re not trying to dupe you, we swear.]