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Review: The Aristocrats, Fleece
An Englishman, a German and an American walk into a bar . . . and play a two-hour set of some of the most incredible instrumental music you’ll ever hear. There’s been something of a boom in accomplished instrumental prog recently, with the likes of Polyphia and Animals as Leaders drawing huge audiences. But in their first Bristol show in nearly a decade, The Aristocrats demonstrate their seemingly effortless superiority in this increasingly popular sub-genre.
Conceived as an opportunity to have a bit of fun away from their day jobs, the ‘supergroup’ trio’s Zappa-esque blend of enjoyably crude humour and extraordinary musicianship swiftly found an appreciative audience. Tonight’s sold-out performance is so rammed that we’re all asked to shuffle forwards because there are punters with tickets outside who can’t get past the door.
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The format remains much the same as before. Each song is introduced by its composer, who explains how it was inspired. And tonight we’re treated to three brand new, as-yet-unrecorded compositions: Hey – Where’s My Drink Package, Sergeant Rockhopper (it’s about a penguin policeman, obviously) and what’s billed as a foray into ’90s dance music, Aristoclub, which mercifully doesn’t sound anything like this most horrible of genres, mainly because it’s performed live with no awful samples. What’s more, Marco Minnemann (who very nearly became the drummer in Dream Theater), decides it could be improved by a lengthy drum solo – an unusually engrossing example of this unloved phenomenon in which not a single inch of his vast kit goes unpunished.
Ever-unassuming, politely spoken ace guitarist Guthrie Govan’s topical Bad Asteroid, he explains, is about the pesky asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs. Cue: huge boo from game audience. There’s a lot of dino-love in the room. “It’s got jazz chords and everything,” he promises, sealing the deal.
Bassist Bryan Beller, whose huge rig dominates his side of the stage, introduces The Ballad of Bonnie and Clyde as being about the band’s brushes with equipment thieves. Its message, apparently, is “thieves suck”, which may not have been what Arthur Penn had in mind when he directed that criminal-romanticising 1967 classic.
The evergreen Ohhhh Noooo makes fun of Govan’s English reserve, while his own Furtive Jack (on no account to be confused with Saucy Jack), whisks us to a Dickensian London soundscape of scuttling ne’er-do-wells and is followed by a change of pace for his bluesy Last Orders – a melancholic musical meditation on “the ephemeral nature of everything”, inspired by the British licensing laws.
Those two hours just fly by in a blizzard of stunning musicianship. On the rare occasion when the trio fuck up and have to start a convoluted composition again, it’s a challenge for us non-musos to spot what went wrong. But the sheer joy they take from playing is both infectious and inspiring.
To secure an encore, the audience is challenged to make a noise louder than the Aristocrats’ trademark squeaky rubber chicken. This is easily accomplished and we’re rewarded with Blues Fuckers from their debut album – a song making fun of bluesers, whose title alone was sufficient to earn the record one of those coveted ‘Parental Advisory’ stickers. That’s quite an achievement for an instrumental collection.
All pix by Mike Evans
Read more: Metal & Prog Picks: June 2023
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