The staunch antagonistic and ever so simply named James succeeded in blustering through their edgy rock dream with a good deal more dignity and composure than the preceding Diskobolisk. Ruefully lacking in melody, Diskobolisk opt for the topically introspective soul search, without ever looking more than faceless wooden dolls in Carmel hand me downs.
But where Diskobolisk were too clumsy to be plaintive and too miserable to be anything more, James confront, with a determined exhibition of hard handed noise and rock dramatics – hack and otherwise. Fronted by a scraggy youth twitching and trespassing further into art school exhibitionism than he would care to admit, the fourpiece nevertheless etch out a rugged individuality from taut rhythms and tart aggression.
On the evidence at hand, James deserve a fair amount, if not all, of the currently circulating gossip, but the truest test of their rousing revelry will not be before the dilettantes of the Hacienda.