Nisennenmondai's new album is called "Tori", hence the crudely designed and rather creepy bird sculptures and mobiles strewn around the bar area upstairs. Meanwhile, a contrast is brewing down at the stage area as Fukuro kick into some intense, rumbling kraut-noise that manages to successfully walk the tightrope between mathematical theory-rock and pure, adreniline-fuelled beat-driven punk. This balance between the mental and the physical ensures that the audience is too busy bobbing around to stroke their chins in deep contemplation, while the music keeps everyone's attention focussed throughout and allows us all a small inner glow of satisfaction at having just made it through thirty minutes of melody-free instrumental noise rock and enjoyed every moment just as if it was real pop music or something.

No such warm feeling from the Hair Stylistics, who play their noise at the loudest possible volume and with no regard for either the ears or feet of the huddled masses before the stage. There's some heavy shouting stuff going down, and obviously this guy's really upset about something. Probably the sense of alienation in a modern post-industrial society or something. Anyway, it's all great stuff unless you're the kind of person who wants something to dance to. Or something to look at. Or some kind of aural stimulus that you can take away from the venue as anything other than a painful memory.

A bemasked Nisennenmondai appear from the back of the hall and circle the room, banging drums, pots and plates, looking like the final scenes of "The Wicker Man" as recreated by primary school students. The audience breathes a collective sigh of "ah, pop music!" and they're off. Whereas in previous gigs, Nisennenmondai seemed like they were playing (admittedly thrilling and musically intriguing) games, tonight they are a tightly wound, sharply honed, punk rock, stadium-bound blitzkrieg. Masako Takada sends squalls of guitar noise swooping over the battlefield like Stukas, while Yuri Zaikawa strafes the audience with machine-gun bass fire, and all the while Sayaka Himeno's drums thunder onwards like a one-woman Panzer division. Like Fukuro, the physical nature of the music is what grabs your attention by the scruff of its neck, but the fundamental intelligence that underlies everything is what keeps it riveted on what's happening on stage. And yeah, everyone's dancing. Score. - Ian Martin, Feb.06.05.