The Horrors

Ok, where to begin with this muggish bunch of London loons. My mum used to call me a ‘Little Horror’. Not because I was a bat, or because I raised the dead every time I went for a potty. It was normally for something more mundane, like drawing a crayon cat on the wall or playing with my food. The connotations of the word ‘horror’ in my head are about as far from ghoulish and frightening as you can get, they’re pretty immature and childish in fact.

I’ve a feeling a fair few people feel the same, most of all The Horrors themselves. Farris Rotter, the lanky, twigglet in a burglar’s outfit lead singer surely doesn’t take himself seriously as he climbs up onto the bar of Rescue Rooms and screams down at the sniggering crowd beneath him. He must know him and his skew-wiff, psychoabilly vamp-wagon guitar crew are more like a corny B-movie horror sequel than a glimpse into the depths of hell.

Sorry, is this sounding negative? Let me bring my point full circle – what do you think is more fun, glimpsing the depths of hell or watching Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan with a bunch of mates? Ok, move out the way My Chemical Romance fans, you’re not invited to answer this one, but the rest of you? Exactly, schlock-horror, with extra gruel, thanks.

The Horrors are brilliant. They play for twenty-five minutes, their psychotic presence (although reeking of art-school), is great fun to engage with in a performative kind of way (I doubt Coffin Joe dresses like that when he’s at home with his mum). Everyone knows they’re not really from the dark side, but why let that overshadow such a great effort to pretend otherwise.

They have great songs too! Honest! Opening up with dirge-rock ripper ‘Jack The Ripper’ is a lot like gurgling mud, but they only throw it in there to wind the audience up. The joke’s on us. Three songs in they whip out proof there’s substance behind the style with a crowd-enthralling ‘Death At The Chapel’, which sees Faris crowd-surfing upside down, Fagin boots sprawled through the air, and not missing a single lyric (ok, most of the lyrics are tantamount to a bear growling, but you know what I mean).

People don’t know what the hell is going on when the house lights come back up at 9.30 and it’s all over. The band don’t say goodbye, they just... how can I describe it? They just ‘f*ck off’ and everyone looks at each other, sweaty and confused, wondering what just happened. Corr, turning up at the venue, muckin’ about climbing all over the bar, shamelessly showing off then not even saying goodbye and ‘Thank You For Having Me’. Little f*cking Horrors indeed, but, y’know, they’ll grow up into nice young gentlemen one day.

FUTURE GIGS