The layout of the Green Door Store means that it gradually empties after each band, an exodus first from the stage area, then from the bar, then through the corridor with the toilets, and finally outside for a fag. The next band sets up in an empty room and has to signal that they’ve started by, well, starting. So it is that for a few slightly surreal moments, Blood Sport kick off and I’m the sole audience member; we give each other an awkward wave. When they’ve split up, been posthumously accorded the acclaim they ought to be receiving, um, humously, and then reformed for a sell-out show at the Barbican, I’m going to dine out on that anecdote.
There aren’t very many people here. That fact is inescapable and baffling. Blood Sport are absolutely spectacular.
At some point in the proceedings, I realise that if I want to drink my beer without spilling it down my front, I’m going to have to stop moving. I forget about drinking my beer. Blood Sport briskly build up to a shimmering, sensuous crescent of polyrhythm and then just keep it coming, never stopping for a second, never breaking the spell. There are moments when the whole thing seethes with restless energy, moments when it crests and crests and crests and then collapses, moments when it approaches a precipice and takes a wild leap into the unknown. There are moments, in short.
Over forty-five minutes, they blend one idea into another into another without interval, something that’s only possible if your ideas are clearly defined and yet executed with a unifying sense of purpose; it takes on the dynamic of a DJ mix, a single piece with ebb and flow and a relentless forward momentum. Crucially, it is never muddled, never indistinct; it never descends into a cacophony, never indulges in cheap theatrics. Music this intricate could easily be purely instrumental, but the use of vocals changes the dynamic, opens up a channel of communication.
Few points of comparison seem worthwhile. I mean, yeah, there’s perhaps a bit of post-punk, definitely some afrobeat, the things that always seem to get mentioned. None of it really matters when you’re standing in the way. I’m reminded a bit of Kevin Martin’s God, of how they could demand a purely physical, non-cerebral, often uncoordinated response from an audience and how blissful that could feel. I’m reminded of seeing Foals in their early days, of how brilliant they were in theory, of how revolutionary they were in their own heads. Of course, Foals were never that band, in reality: they were an indie band with pretentions and ambitions, and there’s nothing very wrong with that. Blood Sport are that band, the band of Foals’ dreams. I still feel like I’m selling them a bit short, like I ought to do better. They make me feel inadequate.
It ends too quickly. Drunk and delirious, you want to hear it all again, immediately. I’d buy a t-shirt, but I’m not capable of being that coherent just yet. Their name does them a bit of a disservice, I think: it suggests ear-splitting catharsis and old-fashioned grubby backroom mayhem. Instead, Blood Sport are a pure joy, an instinctive delight, a cake had and eaten. My ears are fine. My head is spinning.
Ian Grant