Brixton Academy
London
Words by Rachel Lingham
Photos by Chris Daffin

Everyone’s favourite art-house math-rock quintet from Oxford wrapped up their UK tour at Brixton Academy last Thursday, supported by Danananackroyd and Holy Fuck. Known for previously inhabiting shabby pubs and fans houses for impromptu gigs, their move to larger venues has been surprisingly triumphant. Foals mysterious lyrics, formulaic music and incredible energy do not transfer as well onto record; however, their recent blistering live shows have more than made up for that.

In their customary inward facing stance, Foals kicked off with usual thumping duo-instrumental intro XXXX, merging into French Open, and then taking it down a level with new release Olympic Airways.

The wall of sound coming from the stage was impossible to ignore, and predictably the crowd went ballistic for Cassius (where Philippakis mounted the PA stack for the first time), Hummer and Balloons. Closing song Electric Bloom the dark, moody song reminiscent of The Cure’s A Forest, built up to a dramatic crescendo; the tight, urgent drum beats accentuated by the smoke and flashing lights on the beat, and the interwoven, intricate guitar lines culminated in a thunderous instrumental that grabbed you by the knickers and threw you kicking and screaming into the crowd.

Yannis, Walter Gervers (Bass) and Jimmy Smith (Guitar) bounced themselves around the stage, drumsticks were bashed together by all, and the band were joined onstage for the encore Two Steps Twice by Danananackroyd’s Calum Gunn and the drummers from both support bands for an anarchic and devastating finale. All three pounded single toms military-style at the front of the stage, backed by the staccato guitar licks we have come to expect from Foals, with the momentum they’d created blazing a euphoric trail to the aural train-crash of a finale.

Diminutive vocalist Philippakis’ jittery and erratic characteristics make him a mesmerising front man, his destruction of equipment a staple ingredient of their shows – after a broken string led to him whirling his guitar around by the headstock, he proceeded to boot a tom and some drumsticks around the floor. No evidence here that their supposed arrogance is driving their fans away; Yannis’ need to dive arse-first into a pit of sweaty teenagers drove the crowd into a crazed frenzy, fingers merrily jabbing skyward.

It appears that the band have reached a level of maturity and are beginning to fulfil the sometimes overblown hype that has both helped and hindered this intelligent and progressive band. Like a crazy post-punk, angry-disco Joy Division, smashed into tiny pieces by the drummers eardrum-splitting staccato beats, Foals have an irrefutable air of importance and contained self-destruction that still has yet to fade with time. The angular, tight and obsessive formulas of their music constrain an incredible energy that insists on being heard, with their tight-as-a-fish’s-arsehole, machine gun rhythms proving just how proficient these five men are at their craft.