Beheadfest

Agaskodo Teliverek are definitely not a sight for sore eyes. But then again, this is not an evening for sore ears, either.

As Beheadfest – an evening littered with noise-mongering acts - kicks into motion, the Hungarian duo bound on stage clad in their usual ill-fitting sports shorts and socks. With foot up upon monitor, Miklos 'The Accountant' Kemecsi leaves little to the imagination: his shorts are short, revealing a sinister bulb. Rarely, though, does an instrumental act captivate an audience with such bewilderment. Midway through their warped set they invite onstage their staple guest appearance, this time from Chickpea. She’s an equally eye-catching character with her pretty white dress beautifully accompanied by a pair of swimming goggles round her head. She launches into a fiercely slurred yelp, transforming Teliverek into Deerhoof for three minutes, before bounding back off again. Goodnight Chickpea, goodnight.

Like Val Valentino revealing the secrets of the Magic Circle, Teliverek seem to break what could be indulgent guitar solos down to the simplicity they are really built from, creating playful pop riffs layered like three-minute flirtations with Yes. So, why does stardom not yet beckon? Firstly, see that photo. Secondly, without a vocalist their set has a habit of tiring fairly easily. But, at the same time, whether or not a full-time vocalist would actually dull their routine remains to be seen – instead, the artists who accompany each performance make each outing with these gentlemen a refreshing and peculiar spectacle.

With Pale Horse dropped from the bill, Comanechi step up. Akiko Matsuura is like a woman possessed. Whilst a vast amount of her delivery could be labelled spoken-word of style at times, it seems more appropriately described as shriekened-word as she wails away. Sounding like Death Sentence: PANDA! brought up strictly on Ramones records, Comanechi's hair-metal aesthetic seems hardly appealing, but there’s a sensibility to it all. Swansong offering ‘Death of You’ flaunts their usual melodramatic rampant rock: “Don’t touch me, I am disgusting!” screams Akiko, sounding like a manic housewife on the brink of a breakdown.

Scotch Egg is an equally odd entity. There are few acts, even within the warped arena of music he inhabits, that possess a set-opener that is, effectively, Tetris-techno. Though it is difficult to ever know quite how much he is actually doing up there, he always seems busy enough fiddling with his Gameboy and box 'o' trix. Unfortunately, Scotch Egg this evening seems a bit devoid of inspiration - relying on the Beverly Hills Cop theme being something the Crazy Frog was reduced to at the tail end of his career. As the set progresses from techno interpretations of 'Hall of the Mountain King' to open mic karaoke for 'Living On A Prayer', it all seems a little desperate. All in all, he hasn't really showcased the ridiculous brilliance he usually has to offer.

And so, masks on and tops off, Trencher close events with their standard dense drone. It all seems a little dull, strangely – as tame as grindcore really can be. As the realisation that their hollow and perforated sound nestles in the eardrums, contently, they seem worth sacrificing for the faithful 24 past from Victoria. Tonight’s not Trencher’s night, anyway: the journey home’s peppered by flashes of the Hungarian eccentrics’ finest effort ‘Blood Club’ flooding the skull, alongside haunting images of those exposed limbs.