EMF might just as well not've bothered with the first few numbers. Every time frontman James Atkin cracks open his pout, no words come. Just this unearthly piercing wail from the first 90 rows, something like a million Michael Jacksons simultaneously receiving a sharp blow to the nuts.
But of course, EMF are more than just teen wet-dream fodder, another DURAN DURAN for the 90s. They will accept adulation only on their own terms, which happens to be at white noise, ear splintering volume. Essentially, EMF are mad indie fuckers from hell with metal for brains. There are a lot of very surprised visogs. stunned at the sheer ferocity of their beloved ones' performance.
Atkins' vocals are weird, an unnerving mixture of little boy lost and snide arrogance which leave you alternately spellbound and wanting to bottle him. Zac Foley on bass and Mark Decloedt's drums prowl watchfully, like tutors at a sixth-form college, uncertain how far to join in. Basically, they keep order, allowing Atkin to prat around with verses and generally have himself a ball.
Ian Dench is the real surprise. The prominent hard edge to the guitar work on the recent Unexplained EP doesn't prepare for his wall of sound attack, which knocks any thoughts of pop on the head. The crowd goes ape. This is like watching a real band. Dench gets higher and higher. The dancing gets more and more dangerous. Bouncers are plucking exhausted bodies out of the audience, like master anglers.
Then comes "Search and Destroy." IGGY POP covers are maybe the ultimate test. A piece of piss to play, it's another thing entirely to make them sound decent. Agreed, tonight the sound is awesome. It may even go some way to convincing the deeply sceptical indie press. EMF don't give a toss!
Tim Marsh
Riff Raff
July 1992
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