THE PINEAPPLE THIEF
VENUE SWX, BRISTOL DATE 24/03/19
SUPPORT o.r.k.
Bloody typical. You wait years for an ex-King Crimson drummer and then two come along at once. Effectively a hometown show for The Pineapple Thief, given that founder and frontman Bruce Soord lives an hour away in Yeovil, this prog-tastic double bill features both percussion maestro Gavin Harrison and fellow Crims veteran Pat Mastelotto, who now plays with The Pineapple Thief’s agreeably gnarly American-Italian labelmates O.R.k. For fans of knotty time signatures and wild jazzoid excursions, this is ear-bashing heaven.
The last night of a lengthy joint tour for both bands, there is a giddy end-of-term mood to this packed show. Upgraded from a smaller rock-friendly club to a glitzy discotheque at late notice, there is also a sense tonight that semi-local heroes The Pineapple Thief are reaping some long-overdue rewards after two decades of work. After all, last year’s Dissolution album earned rave reviews and a Top 40 chart slot.
O.R.k. bring analogue 70s vibes: hairy, heavy and steeped in thunderous riffage. With his sideways-mounted drum kit perched front of stage, Mastelotto is more conductor or ringmaster than mere timekeeper, often launching into extended jams with guitarist Carmelo Pipitone and sometime Porcupine Tree bassist Colin Edwin. System Of A Down vocalist Serj Tankian guested on their
new album, Ramagehead, so Pipitone inevitably has to cover his vocal on Black Blooms. But even without star guests this is a kinetic, combustible performance suffused with a potent aroma of patchouli oil and bong smoke.
The Pineapple Thief’s melodic brand of proglite is much more polished and contemporary than O.R.k., but there is still an impressive punch to their Dissolution-heavy set. Alone At Sea and 3000 Days have an exhilarating physicality, Harrison working up a frenzy of muscular dexterity while Soord indulges in some terrific avant-metal slideguitar shredding. The singer is in self-deprecating mood, laughing off minor technical glitches that recur throughout the evening. “Bit of a malfunction with my wah-wah,” he explains after the soaring power ballad In Exile fades. “There will be no drum solo,” he quips with a cautionary nod to Harrison.
Low points? A few slower tracks get a little bogged down in ponderous navel-gazing, like That Shore, and the band’s minimalist staging will need an upgrade as they begin playing larger venues like this. Also, however lazy and obvious they may sound, those Radiohead and Muse comparisons are hard to ignore at times. The most overtly Thom Yorkian moments in Bristol are Threatening War, all minor-key dread wrapped in crashing melodrama, and the quietly menacing Not Naming Any Names.
That said, they save some scorching show-stoppers for the finale, especially the propulsive mechanised groove of Nothing At Best and the shimmering, aching lullaby Snowdrops. As the band take their ritual final bow, Soord produces a champagne bottle, then spends an awkward minute struggling to pop the cork. “Bastard!” he laughs.
But it is the easy mirth of a man who knows he has played a blinder.
“BRUCE SOORD IS IN SELFDEPRECATING MOOD, LAUGHING OFF MINOR TECHNICAL GLITCHES THAT RECUR THROUGHOUT THE EVENING.”