Start-stop erotic cabaret
Tuesday 18 May
“Dividing the nervous few who have heard or seen them, art/punk duo Selfish Cunt aren't simply an in-joke too far perpetrated by the denizens of London's trendy Hoxton - more a malignancy at the heart of the fashionable life. Singer Martin Tomlinson and guitarist Patrick Constable create unruly anti-songs, angry unravellings of beatbox stuffer, garage noise and invective. Tomlinson is Suicide's Frankie Teardrop recast as a violent gay dandy, and genuinely menacing debut double A-side single Britain is Shit /Fuck the Poor is the most brutal state-of-the-national address since the Sex Pistols' God Save the Queen.”
The Guardian’s recent 40 Greatest Bands in Britiain Today feature
Dealer to Pete ‘Libertines’ Doherty/auteur of pop smash ‘For Lovers’ Wolfman and his Side-Effects (ha-ha) made like Sue Cook and pulled out. No shame really, as at least the price dropped to £6 from a tenner.
Selfish Cunt is rock as cathartic theatre, the performance and the message far more important than the medium (Britain is shit; full of lies; white men spouting shit in their shirts). That’s because their media are a guitarist who has not moved on from that first thrill of playing loud blues-rock in his bedroom, uninventive ‘industrial’ techno drills and mostly inaudible lyrics from Martin Tomlinson. I’m all for back-to-basics punk without the nostalgia but aesthetically, it fails to work in noise, dance or agit-pop terms. “Sheep on drugs” – Don suggested. Schlock-horror.
So visually they are more captivating. Or rather he is captivating. Heavily mascara-ed, Tomlinson looks like a lithe Richey Edwards and prowls the stage constantly gyrating, leaving it to stare manically into the eyes of those at the front, contorting his torso and limbs. Provocation was his game; self-effacing coquetry was his return. The singer from the previous band was accosted for simulated rape. Then he took his trousers off, revealing a natty pair of pants.
It would be great if the Cunt could transcend their art-rock trappings while keeping their emetic act relatively intact, storm the public consciousness and kill their complacency. And the braindead irony of the art college crowd (Chas ‘n Dave played by the DJ). And the relentless look-at-how-tuned-in-we-are lifestylisation of serious papers like The Guardian. The democratisation (marketisation) of media and entertainment means they can get up on stage in any London shithole on any given day and knock one off. But their commentary on Sick UK is meaningless unless Matt in Mansfield and Kylie in Carlisle start questioning their branded milieus.
But Cunts, you were not nearly as bad as the b(l)and that proceeded you. Judging from the Rhythm Factory site, it was probably the mostly female Soho Dolls. Dreadful sub-glam dirges and electro-pop about a decadent demimonde these trustfunders would know nothing about, incorporating an interminable break while they worked out what the fuck they were doing between songs 1-2, mumbled lyrics and a sound that was far too quiet. Tellingly, each song started with a good electronic riff or electro beat before subsequent layering suggested a band without a clue.
With their inoffensive good looks and now-as-then sound, it will probably be this lot that get tarted up and succeed after some music exec, while having his adventures filmed, goes in search of a manufactured electroclash band.
pics from a previous gig