District’s stage shift unlocked a night of surf, psych, grunge, and Beastly brilliance.
Okay kids, story time.
The first time I witnessed Inge Beckmann live, I was 12 years old and had taken a hero dose of shrooms by mistake (DM me for details). It was at Splashy Fen, and Beckmann was performing — of course — as part of the iconic electronic noise-rock outfit Lark. The experience was life-changing. Formative, even. So any chance to see Beckmann casting spells on stage is one I’ll gladly launch myself into.
That’s how I found myself at District this past weekend, wedged between a sea of thirty-something alt-rockers and a couple of beer-and-beard boets, at a gig pulled together by Boogy Central, Sognage, and Foul Play. Beast, the iconic garage rock supergroup formed in 2012 and fronted by Beckmann, were billed alongside local darlings Petrol Station Pies and The Tazers, plus Austrian psych-funk outfit Mother’s Cake (great name).
The night was a success on multiple fronts. Turning District 45 degrees to the left and staging the bands where the VIP booths usually lurk was a stroke of genius. It opened the space in a way that felt organic for a live show, almost resurrecting the ghost of Assembly that still haunts those floorboards. Petrol Station Pies delivered a raucous performance that set the night’s tone, frontman Daniel Cole pulling stunts worthy of a “shantay, you stay” and sparking a crowd-surfing streak that carried on for hours. The Tazers followed, proving why they’ve been peaking interest internationally with a slick and simply – very cool – set. I’ll admit, I missed chunks of these first two acts, and while the energy was there, the crowd drifted in and out, lured by the labyrinth that is District-Surfa-Harringtons.
Mother’s Cake pulled them back. I went in completely unfamiliar with their music, and was pleasantly surprised by the band’s genre fluidity. Their unique sound leaves quite the impression – a Frankenstein monster of groovy surf rock, Nirvanaesque grunge, and psychedelic distortion held together by a pop sensibility in the way of ear worm hooks and melodies. They sounded bloody great — so tight I even leaned over to tell a friend how sharp the engineering was. In hindsight, maybe that was the jinx.
Now let’s get this out the way: yes, Beast was up against some sound issues. Frustrating for them, sure, but the crowd (now packed shoulder-to-shoulder) hardly noticed. A siren clad in black, Beckmann crawled onto stage on all fours, dripping carnal energy that became the performance’s heartbeat, injecting some much-needed feminine power into a night saturated with men on stage. Watching her move, contort, and react to the music is a thing of beauty — a performance rooted in instinct but polished by years of discipline.
Their twelve-song set unfurled like a conjuring, until those sound hiccups forced brief pauses. But here’s the thing: in theatre, they call it the “golden egg” — unscripted moments that can’t be rehearsed, opportunities for brilliance. Beast cracked theirs when Beckmann began bantering with the crowd. Normally, their self described “four-nippled aberration” unfolds like a shamanic ritual, aloof and immersive, but breaking that convention allowed for Beckmann’s natural charisma to shine alongside her preternatural stage presence. This juxtaposition made for something spellbinding in a different way, like watching Radiohead perform at a dive bar.
The only feedback to give was already given by Beckmann’s mic — and considering how little it dented the show, it’s no wonder Beast remains one of the most impactful, singular live acts we have.
All photos courtesy of Laura McCullagh.
