Spending a Night with Fat White Family

I’ve made a few attempts to capture the essence of Brixton-by-way-of-Peckham-but-really-it’s-all-London degenerate art-garage rockers Fat White Family before. While their story is compelling on paper and on record, I’d heard countless times that their live show is the only authentic way to experience them. Their calling card has been the kind of chaotic bacchanalia that brings the danger back into rock & roll, pulling a larger crowd of both rock pundits and plebeians into their orbit. Theirs is the kind of chaos that can only be comprehended through experience. So as I made my way to (Le) Poisson Rouge last Tuesday night for my debut Fat White Family experience, I realized for the first time in ages that I genuinely had no idea what to expect from a live show.

After teasing the crowd with a recording of chanting monks for a few minutes, Fat White Family took the stage in front of an eclectic crowd. Never before have I been to a show where I stood alongside guys in Dinosaur Jr. shirts, girls in flowing dresses and floppy Carly Simon hats, NYU adjunct professors, and at least one older British gentleman in a suit who bore an eerie resemblance to David Bowie. It was the kind of audience that probably wouldn’t have agreed on anything other than the fact that the promise of something rare and special had drawn them there. The evening had the feel of a Warholian happening where the spectacle is just as, if not more important than the substance. Throw in a projected backdrop of psychedelic images and a stoic band that all but refused to break the fourth wall, and the retro-avant-garde vibe was impossible to ignore.

While the songs on Fat White Family’s two records Champagne Holocaust and this year’s Song for Our Mothers feel like they’d sound better if you were doped up, their live counterparts offered a much more visceral thrill. Songs like “Auto Neutron” that once crawled were transformed into foreboding marches. Others like “Whitest Boy on the Beach” that relied on electronics and atmosphere became almost frighteningly immediate. “Bomb Disneyland,” once jangly and distant, became a crunching, reverb-drenched anthem that might inspire some lost soul to drive 100 mph towards Anaheim with a head full of bad ideas.

Lias Saoudi of Fat White Family (photo credit: Kelsey Wagner)

Part of what makes live FWF so captivating is the way that frontman Lias Saoudi commands the stage. Though a man of few words outside of each song’s lyrics, he nonetheless held the audience in the palm of his hand like a feared dictator. The sheer force of his spastic energy and some downright feral yelps and yowls were enough to start a mosh pit on any song with a drum beat. As a shirtless Lias writhed and contorted his way through the sordid “I Am Mark E. Smith” and spastically boogied to surf-rock-for-nihilists number “Heaven on Earth,” I was left to wonder whether or not Iggy Pop spawned an illegitimate half-Algerian son. In this case, Lias replaced Iggy’s experiments in using peanut butter as an exfoliant with a few quick baptisms by beer and liquor (both of himself and the whole crew of assembled photographers) to connect with whatever demonic spirit must surely possess him. Combine all that with stage diving and a dash of Johnny Rotten’s sneering stage presence, and you have the recipe for one of the most dynamic frontmen around, even on what might qualify as one of his tamer nights.

Of course, there is no Fat White Family (live or on record) without the subtler command of guitarist, vocalist and driving creative force Saul Adamczewski. Armed with a retro Vox Mark III teardrop guitar and a hollow-eyed stare that makes him seem like he might stab you for a few quid, Saul gives the Fat Whites their sinister edge and Manson family grooves. Adamczewski has stated on the record that he’s more a fan of the studio than the stage, a fact supported by his laconic stage presence. This made it hard to tell if his uptempo take on the band’s discography was the product of pure revulsion at the act of performance or just a desire to get it all over with. Regardless, the end result was an amphetamine-laced acid trip that was impossible to experience passively. It was the most fun I’ve had hearing a band play a song about “sexual vertigo” (his words, not mine).

In the end, rather than tales of rioting or the mass swearing of allegiance to a post-nationalist political front, the biggest story of the evening ended up being the appearance of Fat White fan Lady Gaga backstage. Despite her patronage, it’s unlikely we’ll ever hear “Touch the Leather” in a car commercial or see Fat White Family perform at the Oscars. But after more nights like this one, I’d be surprised if the disaffected masses don’t start lining up to worship at the altar of rock & roll’s unlikely, unruly saviors.