The Mount Without is an old, repurposed church in Bristol, bits of which date back to the 12th century; other bits are practically brand new and reach back to merely the 18th century. Somehow it feels like the right venue for a bit of folk music. It’s beautifully decorated and still has a wonderfully vibrant stained-glass window through which the early evening sun glistens. Most striking of all is an infinity loop, fixed to the ceiling, virtually stretching the length of the venue. It loops and dips, imposing and without end, it’s huge and heavy. A massive, unsubtle Talisk-shaped metaphor.
Before the Scottish three-piece juggernaut are Anglo/Irish four-piece MOM & The Rebels. Fusing Gospel with traditional Irish folk and featuring a seriously fiery banjo they warm up the audience beautifully. It turns out that Folk plus Gospel equals (a sort of) country. Follow and Down by the River are both wonderful country soul belters, chorus laden with two tremendous vocalists with contrasting styles. Lisa Canny is a seven-time all-Ireland champion harp and banjo player and betrays her Co. Mayo with some serious vocal gymnastics. Dejay Edmond is Bristol born and brings the Gospel and the soul, and plenty of appreciative head nodding. Together they create slick pop with a slightly rough edge.
It’s Canny’s banjo playing that marks them out though. She is remarkable. Fluent and turbo charged, her playing occasionally reminds you of Roger Dinsdale’s brilliant banjo part in The Grid’s Swamp Thing. It’s deliciously groovy, utterly danceable, almost funky and that’s not something that you can say about a banjo all that often. Sometimes this confluence of styles is almost too much. However, Bristol loves nothing more than a rowdy mash-up of differing styles so, by the end of their short set, The Mount Without was dancing.
When watching Talisk you are reminded that the evolution of a band is an interesting thing. Doubtless many of us have seen them plenty of times over the last few years. Either in little folk clubs or afternoon festival appearances, steadily building to bigger places, late-night stages. Around the time of their latest album, Dawn, something changed though. They decided that their time was up as “merely” an exciting folk band, it was time for noise and lights and smoke. It was time for mayhem.
Mohsen Amini is still the cheerleader, still the lightning rod, but he’s no longer the one behind the wheel, taking crazy hair-pins at breakneck speed. Where he used to push this band to their absolute limit with a concertina gasping under the strain he’s handed that particular baton on now. Benedict Morris is an extraordinary fiddle player and is more than capable of keeping up with the insane pace that Talisk demand. There are times when he’s lyrical and delicate but most of the time he just rips the place apart.
Live, they’re not even really pretending to be a Folk band anymore (it’s still a bit different on record, things are reasonably recognisable). Instead, they are four-to-the-floor, EDM-with-acoustic-instruments, pounding dancefloor monsters. Amini recommends sunglasses early on and the lights blaze and pop, sweep every corner of this old building, colours and pulses in perfect harmony with the thunderous stomp box. Every tune builds and builds and builds then drops. If they don’t build then they just start at sheer heart-attack pace and simply ramp up from there.
This is a set designed by the greatest superclub DJ that you’ve never heard. It’s a continuous loop of euphoria, a day-glo dreamscape, a fantazia. It’s a 90s rave without a set of decks or a gurning drug casualty. In place of that, there’s endless bouncing and silly little dances. Even the most poorly coordinated owner of two left feet attempts to shuffle about. Talisk are that sort of band.
The Hills and Aura were both present and correct. Lava had the singing along with the concertina bit. Every single tune whizzes by with a dazzle of lights, a huge thunder clap of percussion, Amini standing on a chair directing operations and a helter-skelter of violin and concertina.
On Storm, Morris starts with a gentle evocation of sea swept highlands coasts, it’s as Scottish and as Folk-y as anything played all night. It is, of course, only a matter of time before Graeme Armstrong knocks it flat with the steady beat of his guitar before Amini and Morris scream in to blast the whole thing right up into space, causing utter delirium.
Just like that Mobius strip on the ceiling, Talisk continue to be endlessly, infinitely entertaining. The perfect Folk (r)evolution.
Gavin McNamara
TallFolk 