Savages lose a mark for slightly mushy sound on the denser cuts, but as half-hour, pre-debut sets go, the UK post-punks' second Toronto show in two days could scarcely be bettered; afterwards, at least one support band-member could be overheard claiming, in light of the event, that they're giving up music.
An initially receptive crowd grew increasingly transfixed by denim-jacketed singer Jehnny Beth's fiercely sexual manner: her gym-instructor tautness, fists-clenched intensity and seductive death stare, which could halt or start a riot, depending on context. As the icy laser riff of "She Will'' whirred up, the mobile crowd squealed like undercurrents in a tornado. "Husbands" raised the bar once more, temporarily transposing us to a sonic universe without jobs, houses, parents, cats or children.
In the dying squall of feedback, a visibly emotional stranger turned round and pulled a face. "Are they like your new favourite band?" asked another. "They're like my new favourite band." By the yardstick of Savages, we can measure precisely what live music is capable of.
An initially receptive crowd grew increasingly transfixed by denim-jacketed singer Jehnny Beth's fiercely sexual manner: her gym-instructor tautness, fists-clenched intensity and seductive death stare, which could halt or start a riot, depending on context. As the icy laser riff of "She Will'' whirred up, the mobile crowd squealed like undercurrents in a tornado. "Husbands" raised the bar once more, temporarily transposing us to a sonic universe without jobs, houses, parents, cats or children.
In the dying squall of feedback, a visibly emotional stranger turned round and pulled a face. "Are they like your new favourite band?" asked another. "They're like my new favourite band." By the yardstick of Savages, we can measure precisely what live music is capable of.
