At the bottom of Loop Street lies the infamous Club Med where NoiseFix chose to host a mid-September evening packed with loud harsh noise and a healthy dose of angst. It’s surprisingly quiet in this area of the city, rain falling sporadically as I arrive upstairs and wait for the approaching start of the event. An occasional mohawk or the studded leather jackets shuffling past don’t surprise me at all, but the sight of a disco ball hanging from the ceiling certainly does. I resolve to set this amusing thought aside, making my way to the bar to grab a quick beer before the first of four acts off the line-up begins their set.
Young Hands are an anomaly when compared to the hardcore descriptors of the other acts, but they’re quite remarkably a suitable fit for easing the audience into an early-spirited state. They’re groovy to such an extent that an odd few can’t help but start dancing alongside the floor-leveled stage in response to the rhythm being formed. Frontman, Martin Barrios, is humorously talkative in between tracks with South Park and Rick and Morty featuring as primary topics of interest. Barrios’ personal musings continue as he avidly remarks how “soft core will never die” with a short spell of laughter. He isn’t entirely wrong and Young Hands may have seemed a little soft beside the evening’s proceeding acts, but their energy and swaying delivery served as a well-appreciated warm-up lap for the collective site of moshing that was to follow.
One Eight Seven swiftly make their way to the fore by delving straight into anthem structured shouting and fast-paced drumming all pieced together through scraps of punk-inspired intonations. They’re rousing the growing crowd standing near stage monitors lined at the edge of the thin platform whose headbanging motions rapidly transform into weighty push-and-pull antics. Tracks off the group’s debut EP “Destroy” are being played and select fans clearly mindful of each song’s progression are suddenly more visible as they yell along to every verse and chorus. It’s a passionate display as vocalist, Kyle Lucky, is christened with a gush of beer whilst connecting to a few individuals he directly faces. One Eight Seven’s combination of hard-edged refrains and an outcast state of mind subsequently fuels the arena of movement that encircles the band into a fittingly first rebellious brawl.
Joburg’s hardcore outfit FREExMONEY fill the next slot in which a monstrous pit of ramming and tugging quickly ensues – hurling sounds bellowed into the mic during soundcheck indicative of the uncalculated mass of disorder that had commenced. “You guys know how to jol” frontman Mike Bawakami comments, laughing as he pleads that the crowd “just fucking relax”. The request lingers for about a split second before it unquestionably disappears, launching the next heaving round of action in a redemptive and victorious stride. Their set transforms Club Med into the site of a battlefield complete with inadvertent crowd surfing, crossing lines of spewed beer, and incomprehensible screaming.
Each song begins and ends in an explosive manner, drenched in menacing thrash-like riffs that last roughly two minutes or less. A shoe manages to break away from its owner, surfing above the tumultuous wave of heads as it travels from one side of the pit to the other. “Bel die polisie” Bawakami challenges with a grin, merely encouraging the energetic cluster of bodies to amplify their wrestling frenzy. I observe the commotion from a distance mostly, positioned as one of many standing at the fringe of the action in fixed repose. I walk across the beer-stained floor during the quiet aftermath of their performance, dodging its sticky patches in search of an unruffled spot closer to the inevitable shot of chaos I could sense was on the verge of slitting open again.
As the headlining act, hailing across waters from Italy, begins their set a sudden new eruption of movement is provoked. It’s as if the few minutes following FREExMONEY’s departure from the stage served as a mere breather for the uninhibited swell of both forceful and friendly collision taking place. Slander welcomes the raucous spectacle of ferocity with open arms, permitting the moshing haze to topple over the platform rendering the band and surrounding crowd at several stages indistinguishable. Four or five hands immediately stretch out and pluck up a body the instant anyone plummets to the floor. There’s thus a clear etiquette of respect and consideration being followed – an astounding sight alongside the blood and ripped shirt I later notice amidst the motion as well. The Venetian-based five-piece are humbled by this wild reception, admitting how they’re aware of their relatively unknown status in South Africa, whilst also conveying what a pleasure it is to travel and play in a foreign land.
The cluster of roars in numerous instances where a mic makes it way into the audience, however, proves otherwise with strained and unrefined growls that perfectly matches the vocal formations of their separate tracks. Slander’s frontman moves about the stage as he delivers a powerhouse of deep howls, picked up by the crowd halfway into their set for a triumphant surfing toss above the sea of deranged nodding heads.
These impassioned interactions amongst the acts and spectators presented a lively form of fierce camaraderie that left an almost anti-climactic feel when the evening came to an abrupt halt just after midnight. Each one of the outfits undeniably garnered a handful of new supporters who stepped out onto Loop Street into the cold arresting air, highly bruised and battered, and without a doubt wanting more.
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