Holy Fuck

Holy Fuck are not a machine. They are a not-machine fuelled by lots of things, chief amongst them the ATP crowd’s naked hunger for dance — which has had two days to work itself up to this point — fine-tuned by the distribution of Holy Fuck’s rider amongst the front rows.

The not-machine comes onstage. Battered keyboards are constantly reconfigured and moved about, Brian Borcherdt and Graham Walsh wrenching pulses and grooves out of set-ups that look like scrapheaps evolving in fast forward. It is good. Then the not-machine reaches the end of its programme and it becomes fucking transcendent, ‘Lovely Allen’ evaporating us in a blast of white-hot joy.

AL