“I love playing on Sunday,” gibes Canadian sonic polymath ChillyGonzales. “You’ve already taken all of your drugs, so I have you right where I want you: almost sober.” The audience titters, even though he is selling them a little short. For once, the posters dotted around a dingy venue urging gig goers to be quiet for a performance are unnecessary as the opening piano solo escaping from his fingers is intense enough to hush even the booziest of industry types. He pogos on his seat to create a percussive bassline, an electric shock of hair flopping maniacally over his forehead as he pounds the keys, giving him the air of a perma-hungover ivory-tinkler at a Weimar-era speakeasy. He defies you to drunkenly natter in your friend’s ear; he says, albeit without words: shut the fuck up.
Read my full review on Drowned in Sound HERE.