You know these lunatic American evangelist Christians who’re trying to rule the world? You know how they’re meant to experience some sort of epiphany/rapture/touched by Jesus/God/an angel? Well, it happened to me – but Sons & Daughters provided the religious experience.

Let me start at the beginning. The first band of the evening were Errors, who were sort of motorik electronica with emotive lead guitar lines, somewhat reminiscent of early New Order but with added odd robot voices, sporadic ‘nasty’ glitchy feedback/blips and occasional big disco bit. They’d sound quite comfortable on Warp, I reckon. I’d been keen to see them but, as is mostly the way with live electronic music, not much was going on onstage – although the guitarist did pull some nifty automaton-style moves.

Park Attack were next and they were on fire. They played as if their very lives depended on it. The closest thing I can liken them to is ‘Confusion is Sex’ era Sonic Youth – all chaotic discord and strange tempo changes, building up to aneurysm-inducing crescendos. I cannot usually be bothered with instrumentals, but Park Attack’s kicked my head in. When the vocals came they were delivered in near-falsetto screaming yelps complete with stuttering splutters. With a synthesiser filling out the sound and adding a range of eerie flourishes, and impassioned drums which have little in common with any standardised drum patterns, dear God, I’ve fallen in love again. The music drew me in, and sucked me dry, leaving me slack-jawed and emotionally spent. Simply, they were fucking fantastic.

So I almost went home after Park Attack. I didn’t want anything to sully the moment. Sons & Daughters are some sort of country band, right? They could only be a let-down after the dark euphoria I’d just experienced. But, ho-hum, guest-lists and obligations prevailed, so I stuck around.

Thank God I did. Sons and Daughters are possibly the best live band I’ve ever seen. Singer Adele prowls the stage like a feline dervish, singing sweetly, roaring and screaming, howling and wailing, banging the tambourine with messianic fervour. She looks like a Wild West bar room floozy, sings like an angel possessed, and moves with the self-assured sexuality that PJ Harvey used to have before her inner anger was assuaged with a nice lump sum. Guitarist Scott is boggle-eyed, amphetamine-intense, singing counter-melodies, wearing tight jeans and a cowboy shirt. On the other side of the stage is glacial, scowling Ailidh playing electric mandolin and bass. Adele picks up the guitar, plays, sings, then puts the plectrum between her teeth in order to clap her hands over her head, flanked by her bandmates simultaneous actions. At other times she moves like a flamenco dancer, clapping and clicking her finger, flirting and snarling. Musically I struggle to find references, apart from the obvious Johnny Cash – the Pixies’ ‘Nimrod’s Son’ and Nick Caves ‘Curse of Millhaven’ are not tracks that I’d call country, but within my own frame of musical knowledge are the only points I can stick anything to. The band’s Scottish accents which are made much of out with this country shouldn’t really impress me (they’re part of my own musical manifesto thanks to the Yummy Fur’s ‘British Sounds’), but suddenly I get a moment of total clarity and the link between Celtic folk music/country&western/rock’n’roll is made blindingly clear. I’m totally struggling to put this into words. I never expected to like Sons & Daughters, now I’m standing here with tears prickling behind my eyes. Jesus, they’re so good they nearly moved me to tears. I’m stone cold sober and not the sort of girl who cries. At anything. I feel touched by the hand of….well, something. It’s weird, but it was fantastic.

Review by Sarah Glass

www.sonsanddaughtersloveyou.co.uk
www.parkattack.co.uk
www.errors.org.uk