Satan's Buttcheeks at The Nest - Bath Gig Review
Posted on: 2016-12-09
The name says it all really, doesn't it? Satan's Buttcheeks. A deliciously entertaining name for an equally deliciously entertaining group. And when they played at The Nest in Bath on Saturday 3rd December 2016, the dancing, moshing, frenetic crowd were clearly having a blast - almost as much as I was.
But it doesn't just stop at the name. Oh no. The five-piece self-appointed band of Beelzebub smear themselves in Day-Glo paint for their gigs, illuminating the way like some hellish musical beacon for a few hours of total, utter sonic madness that has to rank as one of the most inventive, fun-packed, audaciously ridiculous ensembles I've seen all year. Actually, make that the past 10 years.
The Nest itself is a fabulous three-levelled haunt, the first floor decked out with a bar and adorned with glowing signs, weird paraphernalia, graffiti-style artwork and acoustic zone complete with piano (which, as with any place equipped with the instrument, I couldn't help indulging in some post-gig, late night ivory tinkling). A floor below is the lounge bar; chilled, relaxed, laid-back and regularly home to art exhibitions, DJs and really rather comfy Chesterfield sofas.
As we descended each level, however, it was almost as if we were, appropriately enough, plunging ourselves deeper and more immersively into the dark land of Lucifer himself. Upon entering the lower floor club - home to weekly gigs and bands - Satan's Buttcheeks were already blasting out their unconventionally inspired, irreverent, insane songs much to the wicked, gleeful delight of the spirited crowd.
Self-proclaimed greatest band of Bath and exponents of ultra-violent clown metal, their songs segued effortlessly and manically from one annihilating, devastatingly outrageous song to the next. Raucous and energetic and delivering a blistering set full of thrash metal, screeching guitars, ear-pounding drums and morbid, brutal vocal growls that could have emerged from the very soul of Satan himself, the evening unfolded with zanily unpredictable brilliance, brutality and total, unprecedented barminess in equal measure.
Plus you have to ask yourself: is it honestly possible to dislike a band that, not only proudly boasts a moniker referring to the Devil's derriere, but also liberally and relentlessly peppers a set with such hysterically original, oddball song titles like Balls Out, Put It In Your Mouth, and Satan is My Osteopath? Nahhh, thought not.
A sinful, guilty pleasure whose songs shined with as much crazily captivating brilliance as their luminous torsos, Satan's Buttcheeks were wacky, weird, unique and unlike anything I've ever seen before, and unlikely to see in the near future. A marvelous, playfully anarchic treat.
Jamie is a writer, blogger, journalist, critic, film fan, soundtrack nerd and all-round Bristolian good egg. He loves the music of Philip Glass, the art of Salvador Dali, the writings of Charles Bukowksi and Hunter S Thompson, the irreverence of Harry Hill, and the timeless, straw-chomping exuberance of The Wurzels. You can sometimes find him railing against a surging tide of passing cyclists, or gorging himself senseless on the Oriental delights of a Cosmos all-you-can-eat buffet.
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