The Thing ~ Garage
The Thing drag what sound like peg-legged, neanderthal dance licks kicking and screaming in their wake. In fact a number of their licks are what remain of compositions by the likes of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and The White Stripes, after the trio have pulverised them into submission and left them bleeding in the gutter. Gustafsson plays throughout like a bull tortured by expertly cruel matadors Flaten and Nilssen-Love. Although the group’s enthusiasm is unmistakably genuine and their performances impressive, it’s difficult to shake off a sense of recursive inbreeding: except for a sort of secondhand catharsis, it’s difficult to spy what the current wave of guitar bands add to their precursors, nor what The Thing add to their own antecedents in energy music. If such reservations can be put to one side, Gustafsson’s guttural skronk allied to the full-on thrash and thrum of the rhythm section is galvanising stuff which verges on the magnificent. The Thing must be one hell of a live experience.