Outer planetary brilliance comes naturally to Liverpool’s Mother Earth.
Mother Earth‘s mothership docked into Liverpool a little over six months ago.
And in the short lightspeed that’s passed, they’ve garnered an impressive raft of gigs, a healthy gaggle of supporters and nothing short of great fanfare from across the critical board.
Jay Freeman (four-string bong), Jacob Chabeaux (kit thrash) and George Maund (electric webweaver) are long-time inhabitants from Planet Lodge (an extraterrestrial terrain around Ullet Road, Sefton Park) which has spawned much of the talent to firmly place Liverpool as the leader of the UK’s new music pack.
Indica Ritual, Ex-Easter Island Head, a.P.A.t.T., Shadow Cabinet, Stig Noise, Balloons, Binary Toad, Outfit… Ah the list dribbles on like defensive Tory politician, of all the bands that’ve splurged through The Lodge‘s wormhole.
Yet, Mother Earth may just have the potential to be Getintothis‘ favourite. They’re a myriad of paradoxes. Intricate of form yet simple of pleasures. Slow builds versus fast jams. Formulas collide with fun.
Powered by Freeman’s rocket-fuelled bass pangs and Chabeaux’s irresistibly tight, hard hits, it’s left to Maund to play the fret board like his life depended on it. Long spidery fingers jerk back and forth as his mouth stretches further than his shoulder blade while chunky breeze block riffs trade with lighter guitar plinks.
Similarly to Battles, it’d be easy to level them as musicians that almost know too much, revelling in their proficiency. But like the Brooklyn Godfathers, Mother Earth are having far too many smiles on this trip to be labelled hard work.
The new swag tonight is the most impressive. Faster yet cleaner than their earlier sonics, we’re frequently treated to Freeman duelling with Maund as the notes click in symmetry and the front rows of Wolstenholme Creative Space‘s crowd jerk in time with the beat. It’s a warp factor five display. Mother Earth are galactic fat – come feast.
If there was ever any doubt that Wolstenholme is the loudest joint in this city, Spitting Cobras settle that debate.
It’s perhaps the first time in Getintothis‘ 17 years of gig-going that ear-plugs become a considered accessory – the volume is high.
Young Team-era Mogwai trades with Oneida blasts and MBV washes of deafening noise.
Emphasising the punishment just that little bit more is Sam Wiehl. Mugstar‘s thwacker cracking his drums with such ferocity he finishes the set with a visit to A&E which reveals a hand fracture. Sam’s pain, is our gain, Spitting Cobras were deadly.
Headliners Cowtown are perky, punchy and rather purdy indie-pop, regularly trading banter with a crowd that have enjoyed their trips to Liverpool several times over the last few years.
It’s the kind of post-modern wonky DIY swag, Los Campesinos have been championing for donkies and though you can’t fault their winning hooks and wry side-ways humour, it barely matches up to what’s been on show already tonight. That said, the bar was always high to begin with.
Pictures by Philip MacDonald.