London University Union

I have seen the death of rock and roll and its name is Einsturzende Neubauten.

Normally, after a gig, I go home, get into bed and watch TV. After this one, I ran in crazy circles around Trafalger Square, loudly proclaiming the above sentiment and looking for a sizeable mallet with which to knock off the heads of the lions at the bottom of Nelson's Column.

Following Malaria (how apt! What usually happens following .a dose of malaria?) the stage is cleared of regular instruments and amps and on come lumps, sheets and cylindrical pieces of Berlin metal.

A crowd, large in number, gathers at the front. At times, people sway like a football audience and later, occasionally, even pogo!

There is a buzz of expectation which is remarkable considering Einsturzende Neubauten have never before played in this country and have no records (as yet) released here. This anticipation stems solely from their limited press coverage and a word of mouth underground rep.

Blixa sings like a man being strangled and attacks a guitar with a necessarily insensitive urgency. In the first song, Marc Chung sends out a quivering, pulsating single note bass line; the other two whack the chunks of metal; more sounds come from a cassette player.

At some points, Blixa continues to sing as the others crouch on the ground bashing, scraping and making the most naturally resounding hammering noises since the crucifixion.

Watching Einsturzende Neubauten is an inspiration. In a nominal way akin to seeing the Sex Pistols or the Clash in '77 or, one imagines, the Who or the Stones in '65. They are propelled by a massive charge of adrenaline and deliver an intense manifestation of The Sound Of The Moment.

Yet, conversely/absurdly/awkwardly/threateningly they are dissolvers of such history book rock legends. They burn away the standard expectations and reflexes induced by years of 'rock' socialisation.

Even to eulogise over their acute visionary-like relevance or to sit back and attempt to rationalise and evaluate their existence (and success!) is to miss the thrill, the experience.

Weirdly (although fittingly, in a topsy turvy sense) they're cheered and applauded like rock star heroes. Like a ravenous, devouring black hole, they absorb even this apparent contradiction and gorge themselves on its energy.

Mufti parades the perimeter of the stage, confronting the audience with the grin of a demented clown. Within Einsturzende Neubauten there is a large element of hell-ish circus.

These noise artists of the apocalypse embrace finality and present an ultimately ultimate entertainment. An escape into reality. And (ultimately)...

The End.