Melt Youself Down by Steve Gullick
With the release of their latest album Pray For Me I Don’t Fit In, Melt Yourself Down have stumbled across an inadvertent irony.
Their statement of declaring themselves as outsiders has been a rallying call for those who feel out of step with society, following a furrow that the likes of David Bowie and Pulp (among others) have ploughed: We Are Not Them.
The welcoming community spirit can be felt in the room tonight (March 15th), which the collective leave shaking throughout a succinct set.
Frontman Kushal Gaya wastes no time in closing the gap between band and audience; in amongst the crowd from the second song, he offers his microphone to punters or encourages them onstage towards the end. It may be Tuesday night, but Melt Yourself Down are here for a party.
Which is just as well because, although the music press struggle to pigeonhole them, it’s ultimately cathartic riot music with a bit of everything, albeit defined by the two saxophones played expertly by founder Pete Wareham, matched in every way by George Crowley.
The pair, looking magnificent in gold jacket and shirt respectively, stand either side of Gaya and lean towards the crowd as if to draw us all in further. It’s an odd reference point, but it recalls Tom Morello and Rage Against The Machine: the intent and vibe is the same, even if the instruments are different.
A group with serious pedigree (Polar Bear and The James Taylor Quartet are just two names on their collective CVs), Melt Yourself Down’s fine musicianship is fully demonstrated: before the rest of the group take to the stage for the encore, drummer Adam Betts performs a spellbinding drum solo along with Zands Duggan on percussion.
On Sunset Flip, the pair’s rushing relentless is exhausting (in a good way) to watch, while on Fix My Life they clatter gloriously, as if pounding the venue itself into the ground.
Yet if you focus too much on them you miss something else, not least the filthily gargantuan basslines (at several points Ruth Goller steps onto the speaker as if it’s a pedestal, a status she deserves), which snarl on the Beck-esque Dot To Dot and buzz on the menacing, sinister Nightsiren.
Or you may miss the faultless synchronicity from Crowley and Wareham, whose lung capacities put mere mortals to shame as the saxophones fill the room and underscore the entire set.
While the brass instrument is never less than impressive, it’s most unique on the dark Born In The Manor, which initially sounds like an ethereal Kraftwerk before evolving into a trip-hopping symphonic strut. Equally confident but more in the way that a tidal wave can get cocky, For Real is almost suffocatingly immersive, but the Arabian-style sax sustains an outlet for oxygen.
And then there’s the traditional focal point. Gaya is as purposefully motivational as a frontman should be, but his lyrics can get lost among the madness. There is darkness to be found here, whether the snappy (pun not intended) Crocodile (‘like a crocodile licking your carcass clean’) on which his flow is intoxicating, or on the bopping Balance (‘swinging, scraping, escaping spiders in my mind’).
The darkness of the lyrics are offset by his singing, particularly on the line, ‘this ain’t my tale to tell,’ where he takes the melody to a righteous sweet spot without overselling it.
Gayal keeps his stage patter to a minimum, allowing the music to speak for itself. During It Is What It Is (think Smooth Criminal-meets-Knight Rider), the band stop in at the break and stay silent and motionless for a minute and the room falls quiet, but unfortunately the moment is sadly undercut by an impatient crowd.
Still, you reap what you sow and, after nearly an hour of whipping a crowd up, to expect silence is a big ask. But all is forgiven when Gayal clarifies after the song: ‘There’s nothing like delayed gratification.’ An obvious gag, but a good one.
The encore takes things higher still. It takes something special to out-muscle The Stooges but on their cover of I Wanna Be Your Dog Melt Yourself Down achieve the unthinkable, while the hypnotic groove of We Are Enough (complete with invited stage invaders) closes the night.
The mood in the room is one of understandable disappointment: the writhing rave-pit that passed for an audience were willing the sextet to go on forever, and one suspects they would if they hadn’t already given everything.
