Review: Fat Dog @ Thekla

By Amelie Peters, Music Sub-Editor

A profusion of wires, guitars, peddles spill out across the Thekla stage and what follows is a wealth of sound. Filling the venue with hammed-hypnotic beats and nihilistic depraved lyrics, Fat Dog's return to Bristol is nothing short of eccentric genius. 

'It's F*cking Fat Dog, Baby' - the opening line. And we're off, there is no build-up, no snowballing of sound, no growing energy. There doesn't need to be, it's already there. 

In the dark filth-lit tank that is the Thekla bottom deck, Joe Love stands apart from the sea of perspiring spectators. In a discordantly styled white get-up that Xanadu would be jealous of. And the only thing I can think - I bet he has to use vanish oxi-action every time he washes that. 

Barking back lyrics, the crowd a rabid cult and Joe Love their charismatic messiah. Fat Dog's following, whilst growing exponentially in the last five years is a perfect clash of frenzied and kind. 

In classic mosh pit style, I managed to injure myself by the third song, biting through part of the inside of my cheek. Pressing a hand to my mouth, blood coming away on my fingers, a passing kindly mosher hands me a plaster. A crowd raucously fun, most definitely kind, but perhaps not quite the brightest. 

Aside from as for mentioned previous cheek biting incident, I foolishly assumed I had escaped the gig relatively unscathed. Only to wake the next morning to the horrifying realisation, that I had chipped my front tooth in the pit. Whilst obviously not the most ideal outcome, I can now say I match with Singer Joe Love.  

Love himself ended up chipping his tooth in a previous Bristol based gig, in a classic pit altercation with a University of Bristol Rugby Lad. Yet again the Rugby society sully's the good reputation of Bristol and it's punk scene. 

Notably late to this winter's vogue issued fashion trends is Chris Hughes (Don't you know turtle necks are so last season). In what one can only assume is the plunder from a savage raid of (Scooby doo's) Velma's closet, Hughes dons an orange turtle neck.  

Aside from the obvious tangerine Faux pa, enjoyably silly is the Military/Post-man/Baker-boy blue concoction of costume. Somewhat smartly intimidating, somewhat suggesting a penchant for stamp collection.  

King of the slugs, the slimy anthem and one of the band's first releases, entices a chorus of voices from the mosh. Rivalling Bohemian rhapsody's extensive run time, the song stands at seven minutes five seconds. Surely proof of songs stature, the mosh doesn't falter for all four hundred and twenty five seconds. 

A deranged crab dance seems to be Hughes’ go to dance move, jumping down into the crowd, dropping his stance into a squat and rising his hands like a crab. No one is to escape the peer pressure, the absurd movement echoed by the crowd paints a silly image.  

I believe it is safe to say the band don't take things all too seriously, putting joy and silliness above a serious and pretentious attitude that has sunk all too many bands. 

Joe love parts the Sea of people, repeating the lyrics 'I am the king'- only 33 times! The crowd love it, chanting it straight back at him. The cultish hypnotic nature of the band does make me wonder if they might actually become a cult, the band and music a front to lure in the masses. 

Chris Hughes proves two things the first that press-ups are not only relegated to the realms of work outs, secondly that you can in fact touch the sticky floors of Thekla and survive. Bravely, arguably also foolishly, Hughes chose one of the few songs in which he had no musical role to rile up the crowd with a display of said push-ups. 

Pictured above is saxophonist Morgan Wallace, a steady presence throughout the gig and co-creator of the various unhinged dances. Taking a break from her own musical ventures - Morgan Noise, an experimental electronic pop jazz creation, Wallace wows the audience with skilfully playing, undisrupted by the cacophony of calamity happening around her. 

The only qualm raised for me was the length of the gig, and even though they played the full set as intended. In my recollection the gig lasted about five minutes, I guess what they say must be true. Time flies when you're at a Fat Dog gig. 

Fat Dog are set to return to Bristol on February 19th, playing the formidable SWX. Hopefully, and as hinted by the band, bringing new new music with them!