CONFLICT

ANNIE ANXIETY

London Starlight Club

SATURDAY NIGHT and the Starlight's compact interior is crammed full to bursting point. Trips to the bar become expeditions of considerable pathfinding difficulty as the room becomes a near inpenetrable cluster of leather. Dozens more would be punters are locked outside.

Annie Anxiety is the unbilled opener. Her fierce, brain-hammering pre-recorded backing strikes a vivid contrast with the reggae tapes played earlier. Starting with an inhibition-shedding assortment of severe shrieks and screams, she appears to become totally immersed in her performance. She strides around, continually on tip toes and wailing in fearsome, demonic tongues like a being possessed. Annie's set is a brief fifteen minutes or so, but a short, sharp impact is made.

Conflict follow quickly. As they work through their set-opening instrumental the atmosphere tingles with expectancy like a spark hopping down a fuse towards a stack of TNT. Vocalist Colin appears and the proceedings proper commence. The spark hits home and there is a big, big bang.

They harness raw street power and mirror the energy straight back at the audience. As they fire out rapid song assaults people push each other on to the stage while others roll around on the footlights in a kind of mad, celebratory ritual.

Conflict release volley after volley of towerblock-demolishing vitriol yet spew forth this intense force with an almost nonchalant ease. The guitarist looks too small and harmless to be in any way responsible for the sizzling affray, the lanky bass player grins gormlessly and appears to revel in the mob melee. Colin shakes the mic stand and wields it like a battle mongering jungle savage.

Earlier he told me that he felt that people were now actually listening to the group and that at fast they were getting a message across. Tonight they demonstrated their colossal musical charge although any message seemed to simply fly past the ears of those hell bent on an evening of jumping around enjoyment.

Afterwards Colin admitted failure.

Conflict are prowling dogs with a vicious bite but Rubella Ballet, in comparison, are of the same breed but younger, playful pups. Into the uniformly bleak and gritty realism of the Crass/Poison Girls corner of the punk spectrum, they inject a bright dash of colour and an optimistic zeal.

Their sweetly incredible sound carries a youthful pop freshness. There is a little of prime Buzzcocks wall of-noise swath, a bit of the psychic cut of early Banshees. I'm sorry to drag these hoary old relics in, but the point is that Rubella Ballet assemble all the good and vital elements of punk-past and seamlessly link them to the committed ideals of punk now.

Zillah and Gamma, singer and bassist respectively, wear dashing loud dresses, both of which are concealed under coats until they actually go onstage (an unashamed nod to showbiz here!). The former dances around with a playground-worthy lack of pretence and self consciousness. The latter peers out from above her instrument forcing a frown but not able to conceal her inner desire to grin. They share and swop vocals. The guitarist takes a turn on the mic too and occasionally indulges in good natured minor league axe heroics.

Sid, the drummer, hides his upper torso in a tricoloured Hawaiian beach shirt and provides the major infusion of solid musical ability. The playing is never wildly adventurous but just that important step removed from merely pogoable bam-bam bam to keep it alive and interesting.

In this live setting the intent and bite of the lyrics is lost but given the PA size and the crush of the crowd this is hardly the band's fault. After the bodies flying-everywhere cavort with Conflict, Rubella Ballet are a more homely affair. People sit on the stage and it is a friendlier, unhectic and ultimately more communicative setting. Conflict can offer a concise reflection of harsh street truths, but Rubella capture and absorb the vibe then re-radiate the feeling with their own irresistible sparkle.