Grown-up birthday parties are a tad depressing. The initial excitement of arranging such self-gratifying celebrations is always lost to the traumas of guilt-ridden guest-list selections, tireless outfit deliberations and the realisation you`re edging one step closer to `the box`.
Kids have it so much easier; all they have to wrangle with is lashings of jelly and ice cream and working out how their parents can manipulate a game of musical chairs in their favour. At least tonight, SL Records don`t have to fix it ` there`s no doubting who the winner is at this ten year birthday bash.
Judging by the array of face paints and Darth Vader masks on display, first footers Paul Vickers & The Leg obviously assumed the gathering was a fancy dress affair. Blasting into a swamp of voodoo riffs and indecipherable mutterings, this maniacal quartet has a penchant for entwining bruising Fugazi-esque crunches with Paul Vickers` Beefheart-infused Middlesbrough growl.
But following `Umbrella Propeller`s` banjo driven psychosis the scintillating tempo cascades into cringing Chas and Dave-esque buffoonery; with soup bowls absurdly used as instruments and Vickers` inebriated ramblings awkwardly unfolding as irrelevant beat-poetry . By the end it`s a tedious mish-mash that alternates between innocuous neo-country and joyless metal thrashes, leaving the band to trundle away from the party like a defeated clown that bore the full brunt of a custard pie.
Fortunately, Thomas Truax has less problems geeing up tonight`s well-wishers. The enigmatic New Yorker`s set is littered with absurd self-fashioned instruments like the Hornicator (a gigantic spring-laden gramophone), Sister Spinster (a churning wheel of percussion) and Mary Poppins (essentially the rhythmic clattering of two spoons and a block of wood). Parading tracks from his new record `Why Dogs Howl At The Moon`, Truax`s minimalist gypsy-folk burlesque is a compelling blend of Waits, Richman and, most curiously, Jim Carey.
Such a bewitching character may seem more at home in the late-night grime of a smoky jazz bar but Truax dazzles the bulging Liquid Room crowd with his virtuous, unassuming melodies. Looping layers of sound through the Hornicator, Truax joyously crafts the complex, woozy, stop-start shanty of `Why Do Dogs Howl` like a seasoned pro disguised as a dishelved troubadour. At one point, Truax even lets himself loose from the stage`s shackles to explore the venue with an acoustic guitar; manipulating every nook and cranny into an echoic prop for his moongazing strum-along.
Fleeting paeans like the nocturnal `Whistle While You Sleep` and `Inside the Internet` glare into the peculiar mindset of a performer ambivalent to the complexities of everyday life ` this really is a man happy to communicate through a series of spine-tingling howls and bristling melody. The sumptuous `The Butterfly & The Entomologist` is the night`s victorious peak; reinforcing Truax`s innate ability to create vivid sonic imagery by transforming his guitar into a cacophonous swirl of sound with the aid of a battery powered fan.
When Truax departs you begin to feel slightly sorry for Edinburgh mainstays Saint Jude`s Infirmary as they saunter to the stage. There`s little wrong with the sickly sweet quintet`s pursuit of wind-swept melodies but there`s no mind-blowing ingenuity on offer either. The band`s lack of audience interaction has always been a stickler but tonight their dourness is accentuated by bleak, cavernous lighting and a chattering audience that seems more impatient than enthralled. In comparison to Truax`s gregarious demeanour, Saint Jude`s are strictly morose
Opening up with `The Church Of John Coltrane`s` wispy gaze the group have finally managed to grasp the importance of a striding start, yet the resulting set is awash with an introverted tepidity that would struggle to stir Paul Vickers` soup bowl, nevermind the crowd`s spirits. The sound of a virtuous melodica and glistening Spektor-esque basslines resonating through the airwaves suggest their sophomore record will be a bubblier affair than Happy Health Lucky Month but the band`s dead-pan disposition still detaches them from the crowd; with each member seemingly too absorbed in themselves to acknowledge the presence of an audience. This aloofness becomes entangled in the normally rousing `American Sonar` and even manages to percolate into the scuzz-charged defiance of closing track `Vvvvvampyre`, leaving it limp and lifeless – much like the atmosphere.
As 10th birthday parties go, SL Records` had all the makings of an ebullient occasion ` it`s just a pity some of the guests mistook it for a wake.