Live reviewTHE TELESCOPES
THE witching hour of midnight, heads swollen like pumpkins, The Telescopes are every bit as bud and unservile as their current release '7th Disaster' suggests.
In Syndrome's murky depths they're in their element building a womb of noise; brawling guitars taking the paint oft the ceiling, born-again bowl-heads trembling as if they've forgonen how to walk. People gawp wondering what further depths hair-dressing can sink to.
The 'Scopes still need something more, some extra sparkle-though tonight they're in the right place to sound right; I still think three-quarters of the way through that I've had enough of the merciless assault - but their aggressive sleaziness is reassuring.
lt's the volume that first draws people's attention, and then it's the simplicity that holds them. A torrent of slurred and slouching songs that doesn't force you to put yourself out (unlike, maybe Spacemen 3). This is easy. Even as I slump against a back wall I can nod my head.
Underneath its brutal cloak, the melodies fiddle around; 'Disaster' itself taking a more succinct stance with a Velvets/Clash rift. It's raucous and young and sometimes ugly and mean. It (they?) can see for miles.
Originally appeared in NME 17 June 1989. Copyright © NME