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In a remarkable coincidence, well, remarkable to me alone, two bands who played at the tiny, one day, one stage 2010 Tapestry Festival in leafy Shenley Park in the outskirts of North London, have both released their new albums in the same week. I like them both. The physical editions are both distributed by PIAS, although on different labels. The coincidences end there. One of those bands, Kitty Daisy & Lewis discussed earlier. The other band who I had not heard of when I saw them on that bright, sunny day, were Zun Zun Egui. “Who?”, I asked Barry, the promoter, in order to clarify the pronunciation. “Egg you” he replied. I still don’t know if that’s correct and it doesn’t matter although when Lauren Laverne uttered their name a couple of months back on 6 Music differently, I felt somewhat superior in that she hadn’t heard of them before.
Back at Tapestry, I remember chatting with my friend Simon Onions behind The Betsey Trotwood beer tent when we first heard the poly-rhythms and liquid bass from across the field. We moved in to investigate and I was entranced for the next 45 minutes or so by the fluid drumming, vocal yelps and soaring synths. I caught up with the band after their set and had a short chat with Matthew the drummer and purchased their back catalogue – a sel
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Four years and an inspirational trip to singer/guitarist Kushal Gaya’s home country of Mauritius later, we have Shackle’s Gift, a multilingual, experimental freakout of fusion, funk and free jazz that draws influences from every corner of the world (both physical and musical) and reforms them as solid, sedimentary rocks of pop music.
It’s a largely joyous experience, case in point being recent lead single “African Tree”, a striding, lolling, grinning cartoon stomp that offers, half-drugged “I just can’t see your face” before leaping into a maddeningly memorable Talking Heads chorus. “Why are you only wearing shades of green?!” demands Gaya, Matt Jones beating the absolute piss out of his drumkit as an incendiary rock riff worthy of Jarcrew slams on the brakes at it’s all-too-soon conclusion. It’s almost impossible to type when compelled to dance around the living room with your cat. Almost.
That we may be in the presence of genuine mind-bending greatness is suggested further by the irrepressible “Tickle the Line”, which in under three minutes develops a groove so absolutely fucking righteous it could raise the dead, or at least get an indie kid out from under his fringe and on to a real life dancefloor. The song is almost comically great – all surging melodies, building