Fuck Buttons
Prague, Friday, March 14If you’ve only ever heard these Bristol, UK-based experimental “rainbow rockers” via their heavily traveled MySpace page, well, you’ve probably still got your hearing. Yet a little tinnitus is a small sacrifice for having worshipped at the sonic altar of Andrew Hung and Benjamin John Power in the flesh. They hunch over their Casios and candy-colored gear, the mic jammed into Power’s mouth while he uses both hands to twiddle up beat-driven, almost tribal dronecore epics like “Bright Tomorrow,” which build slowly but with great forward motion, adding layer upon layer of looping, effects-drenched cascades of sound-wash, to a triumphal, near-ecstatic climax. Older Austinites will note an echo of Butthole Surfers chaos in the mix. It wasn’t until midway through their 50-minute set that the night’s most genuine display of audience adoration blossomed, literally at the Fuck Buttons’ feet: Audience members sitting down on the floor in front of the stage gently nodded their heads in a sea of sound and fury, their faces split by ear-to-ear grins, which were echoed, with equal affection, by Hung and Power. Bliss.
This article appears in March 14 • 2008.