Words & Photos: Felix & The House of Amat Amas Amo
Knowing only of the legendary night they host and the brief moments of their set I caught at Reading this year, I felt nothing was more appealing than to take up the offer that landed in my inbox 2 days prior to tour starting. Bearing in mind that I’d not physically performed as was currently expected of me, since this time last year, I was still far from turning down the offer to take to the throne and keep rhythm resuscitated for a handful of shows that they’d been booked for as part of the French Generiq festival.
I’d been waiting for a chance to jump back into the hugely open 140bpm ether for some time, and the tracks I was sent for inclusion in their set opened up worlds of room for an array of chops and breaks. Entirely sold and physically restraining myself from consistent tapping, fidgeting and general rhythmic public annoyance, we boarded the bus and headed South East to Besançon.
That night we’d been booked a ‘hotel’ of some description. Which, upon arrival, granted it the inverted commas I just subjected it to. Set within the confinements of what appeared to be this town’s answer to Queen’s Bridge, one had to enter through a heavily reinforced gate, that allowed access to a parking area with equally as reinforced surrounding fences. Not a human could be seen, bar a solitary man, standing under a street lamp, looking every part the villain he was desperately trying not to be seen as.
Greeted by the homme aroma of Europe, which consists of cigarette smoke, brut aftershave and cheap leather jackets, we were shown our rooms, which couldn’t have resembled prison cells much more, had they jokingly have built a hotel facade on a juvenile delinquent’s detainment centre. Either way, a bed’s a bed for the sake of what it’s worth, and considering tiredness was the overriding feeling at this time, we took full advantage.
From this point forth, the shows began, starting with a line up consisting of SebastiAn, 1995, Pih Poh, Saidah Baba Talibah, ourselves and numerous others, it looked set to be an eventful evening, which indeed it was. Nothing had felt so natural in a long while as the moment we got on that stage and began the set, the agreance in opinion felt throughout, it was evident the other shows were set to be unforgivable.
From here, we moved to Mulhouse, pronounced MUL-OOSE as opposed to Mull-House, which of course, the ignorance of the English might have led you to believe, as it certainly did us. Here we played with SebastiAn again, as well as Mariachi El Bronx, Saidah Baba Talibah and Brigitte, who most certainly stole the show and also feature one of whom who would go on to become an immediate muse of mine. Following this show, we had 3 days off, so the promoter gave us a house to bide our time in. And introduction to which can be seen here:
Then came the house party, which had been organised by a kid and his friend who’d seen us at the show and so happened to own a penthouse apartment in the centre of the city, in which he’d rammed 60+ guests, a P.A (of vague description) and the means of playing the most gully of sets. Needless to say, it went off, ending at 1am, which immediately inspired the entourage to be led back to ours where the party took its last breath at some unearthly hour.
After another day of solitary confinement/borderline cabin fever, due to apocalyptic like weather, sans internet and a diet of the food ‘Star Kebab’ had to offer, we were all feeling it and more so the need to play again, so when the day of Belfort came around, expectations were set high, and were not deflated by any means. A far more intimate show, in a venue that sat in the shadow of the most monumental fort above, the lineup consisted only of Us, 1995 and Pih Poh (who’s home town it was).
The show was sold out, thus rammed from wall to wall, naturally no barrier and probably over populated due to the wonder of European Health & Safety, which, for those who have visited will know, is not something particularly high on their list of priorities. It went off, as did we, and during the set at some point, I managed to slam my head so hard into my snare that I suffered the most trying whiplash for the remainder of the tour. But such didn’t stop me, for the final show was in Dijon and was the largest of them all. Also sold out, the same line-up as the day before, We held nothing back, for personally I’d sooner die on stage of a broken neck/brain damage/aneurism/heart attack than at the hands of another.
This was the set that confirmed precisely who Murkage are and what their intentions are concerning a live show and movement. Utter carnage, complete with a power cut half way through, resulting in an improv drum solo and numerous freestyles.
It’s safe to say that 2012 will not go without word of their existence, for they’re doing precisely what’s needed and wanted at this time. It was an honour to have had the option to hold down the rhythmic fort and I, like you should, look forward to watching fruition take place for this powerhouse cartel.
