Through the sheer power and raw emotion music brings, you can often sense an overwhelming connection with a band. One that runs way deeper than simply just being a fan of their music. Like you're part of the same world, reacting against the same things you detest, or finding joy in the areas (music or otherwise) where others simply don't. Perhaps you've never met or may never meet this band personally, yet you know they share the same values you do, find pleasures in the same bands you do. You know they are doing there thing for the love, passion and paralleled reasons that daily motivate yourself.
I was lucky enough to see Wet Nuns a handful of times. Sometimes in support (Death Grips, Manchester), occasional festivals (Beacons), or headlining their own. (See below). Was it a joke? Did everyone get it? Was the joke on us? Whatever it was, it was never anything other than memorable, for one reason or another. The band may have called it a day too soon, who knows? Rob and Alexis always entertained us as well as creating some damn fine rock music.
We are saddened to hear of Alexis' passing and our hearts go out to his family and close friends who knew him.
Review, Leeds Packhorse 2012
This is EXACTLY how you should see this band. Hot and sweaty, up close and personal, and at eye level on this, the latest of their tour de toilet circuit stop offs. Rob and Alexis (guitar and drums respectively) alternate vocal duties, whilst pummeling out a combined output involving the dirtiest blues-rock guitar, alluring drum patterns and layered with deep, south (Yorkshire) vocals over the top. One more slight adjustment to take out the requested over-bright spotlights at the front, and the setting is perfect.
A decent crowd swig from their Friday night drink of choice as these two men hammer out track after track whilst keeping it real with jovial audience interaction. Indeed taking the music aside for a minute, the other major positive about Wet Nuns is there down to earth manner and infectious sense of humour that leaps out during a drum adjustment or guitar tune up between songs. A minor event in the camp, be it an onstage tumble or an unpleasant train station toilet experience is told with sheer un-rock and roll deadpan hilarity. By the end of an evening with these guys you feel like you’ve known them forever, or at least you’d like to. It undoubtedly keeps them glued together on tour and I suspect helps keep any annoying individual habits from erupting into an issue.
Guitar strings break, but it doesn’t stop Rob thrashing at the helpless being and producing bastardized mashed licks of seventies metal, Black Keys wig outs and Desert Rock sludge. Alexis meanwhile throws a constant fit behind the kit, apart from when he’s stood on the stool, raising his sticks skywards or toweling off the constant drips of sweat from his head. Singles from the as yet unrecorded album creep into the tail end of the set, and familiarity sends waves of excitement through the crowd. It’s heart-warmingly reassuring that the best is perhaps still a long way to come from Wet Nuns. As with their numerous fellow two-piece peers, their sound (albeit carved into one of their own) is limited in how far it can stray and expand. Not that this is a problem, yet.
Should an album materialise, don’t delay in your purchase. Meanwhile you’ll never be too far away from a Wet Nuns live show, such is there touring schedule, so go drink it in.
Words - Pete Jackson