On the road with Enter Shikari, Kerrang! October 15, 2008
BACKSTAGE, THEY bounce on what seem like spring-heeled feet. In a corridor packed with flight cases and stage crew, they whoop wide-eyed at each other. They bob, they weave, they grin, they smile. They hear the crowd outside, chanting their name and they smile some more. Adrenaline, energy, excitement – it’s all etched into their faces. Seconds to go now, just moments before it’s all released.
And then comes the cue and – blam! – they explode onstage. Arms aloft, grins wider, fists pumping the air. They run from one side of the tiny stage to the other: here one second, there the next.
In front of them is a mass of swirling limbs. People surge and push, heaving to the barrier, squashed into the most improbable and personal nooks of the person in front. They’ve earned this spot, front and centre, through day-long queuing in the teeth of a cold Hull wind. Now the hours shivering in impractical t-shirts and with the impenetrable conviction that this is what they <<must>> do in order to show their dedication to this band are paying off.
They’re peaking right now, too, those at the front and those further back. Whipped up by the opening band Flood Of Red, they’re eager for more. And it was delivered in a volley of beats and breakdowns, of dirty bass lines and crowd-stirring frenzy, by the drum ‘n’ bass of support DJ P-Dex. Sweaty and at fever-pitch, the main event can’t arrive soon enough. “This is going to be brilliant,” says one to another. “Come on!” yells another, not with impatience, but as a rallying cry for those, like him, who will be leaving here battered, broken and deliriously happy.
All of this, all this mania, has happened without a single note of Enter Shikari’s music being played. When that flash comes, it’s as if the touch paper has been lit. For the following hour, there are fireworks more volatile and exhilarating than at any Guy Fawkes night party. Band and fans are as one, a whirling circle of energy passes from stage to crowd and back again. First singer Rou Reynolds is in the crowd, still screaming, still urging his songs on. Then guitarist Rory Clewlow clambers along the barrier that lines the side of the room. To the horror of two St John’s Ambulance staff behind him, he dives in as well, still playing his guitar even as hands paw at him, grabbing at his clothes, his instrument, his body.
Bassist Chris Batten is banging his head, kicking his legs and spinning, circling and prowling – his movements the sort that would have him sectioned were he anywhere but onstage. Behind is drummer Rob Rolfe, a blur of arms who, between songs, can be found on his feet to the side of his hi-hat, gurning, thumping his hand into his head and raising the electricity levels into the stratosphere.
They give it their all and they get their crowds’ all in return. Through riffs, happy-hardcore synths, breakbeats, out and out punk, aggression, unity and more, they deliver the Asylum in Hull a night to remember. Then they stagger from the stage, collapsing breathlessly on those flight cases backstage.
Over their shoulders, the crowd pause for a beat too. With lank hair stuck their faces with sweat, t-shirts either ripped or removed, and their breath far from being caught, they take a second to take stock. Those at the front can no longer move, so crammed in are they. Then those at the back, where there is scarcely more room to manoeuvre, squeeze their arms up through the mass of steaming bodies, and so the chant begins: “Enter Shikari! Enter Shikari! Enter Shikari…”
Backstage, the band look at each other and grin again: touched, delighted and re-energised by the support. They’ve only been back here 30 seconds at most. They’ve barely had time to chug down the bottles of water they all clutch. And yet, as Rolfe fires out a quick, “Shall we do it?”, they launch themselves back out there for another two songs. A final assault.
All too soon, it’s over and this time Enter Shikari do collapse backstage. Out front, as the bouncers struggle to clear the room, the crowd look at each other in wonder and admiration. “That was absolutely awesome. They just get better and better. That was by far the best gig I’ve ever been to. Amazing,” says Alex Rogers, half naked and dripping in sweat. “That was quality, everything I expected and more. You’ve got to see them live, they’re fucking excellent,” adds Ryan Denman. “Awesome,” says his mate, Jason Beckett through a broad and exhausted beam, “I’ve never seen them before and this was absolutely brilliant”. “It was just mental,” “sweaty,” “really up there,” “such a good live band,” say Nicholas Richmond and Hannah Gale, their words tumbling over each other’s as, panting, they stagger from the venue to tumble out into the cold night air with the rest of the audience.
In their dressing room, emerging from showers, draining beers and Red Bull, the four members of Enter Shikari give each other a proud nod. “A good day at the office,” says Reynolds. And he’s right.
THE SCENE earlier in the day was very different. With hours to go until show time, Enter Shikari can be found slumped backstage. Reynolds is spinning a few tunes on P Dex’s turntables, (real name Sam, brother of Clewlow and the band’s support DJ). The rest of the band are inventing games to fill in the time. There’s catch the lemon in the cup, catch the lemon in the cup left handed, then just catch the lemon. Next there’s throw the teabag in the cup, throw the teabag box at the cup, then, simply, throw the teabag at each other. “It’s pretty much a case of filling the time before we get onstage. It can get boring,” says Rolfe. “Getting in front of the crowd is what the day’s all about – until that moment, it’s just waiting.”
Today, though, there’s an extra problem. On arrival in Hull, the band discovered that, much to their surprise, the local promoter had organised an official Enter Shikari aftershow and would be charging people for entry. The only problem was that, not only had he not told the band, he was actually surprised when they said that they really ought to be there. “If it’s billed as an Enter Shikari aftershow and then we don’t turn up, then everyone there is going to think we’re arrogant, rock star tossers,” explains an appalled Clewlow. “The promoter didn’t seem to understand that. But it’s sorted now, and Rou, Rob and P Dex are going to DJ.”
As examples of how highly Enter Shikari regard their fans go, this is as good as any. Mortified that anyone might think they were trying to make a fast buck out of those who came to tonight’s show, they went considerably out of their way – even altering their travel arrangements and bus schedules – in order to make amends.
So it is that, as midnight strikes, Enter Shikari wander into one of Hull University’s student bars – a room singularly lacking in anything that might be called personality, style or taste – as the house DJ struggles both manfully and unsuccessfully to encourage those who paid their £2.50 entry fee to take to the dance floor. Most, instead, spend their time clustered around the four members of the band, asking them for autographs, posing for photos and, in the case of one particularly drunk girl, trying desperately and fruitlessly to cop off with Rob Rolfe.
It’s the sort of environment that Enter Shikari love. No matter that this is hardly the world’s greatest party, no matter that the room could take 500 people but is currently occupied by nearer 50, they’re determined to have a good time. “We’re not the sort of band who keep to ourselves,” explains Clewlow. “We tend to embrace parties and extra people around us.”
So, in turn, Reynolds, P Dex and Rolfe take to the turntables, playing a succession of drum ‘n’ bass and, in Rolfe’s case, happy hardcore. To their credit, they begin to fill the dance floor too, though, to be fair, that may have more to do with the £2 pints than the tunes they spin.
It’s a decent night but not a classic and the band seem to know it. They spend much of their time talking to their support band Flood Of Red, old touring friends they’ve not seen for a while, while Clewlow and his brother chat to their cousin – a student at Hull.
In fact, there’s a definite family feel around Enter Shikari. Not only does Clewlow have his brother along as support and his cousin here tonight, Reynolds’ genial and friendly father Keith is the band’s tour manager. On top of that, Batten’s dad helps out with Enter Shikari’s management.
“We’ve always had that, actually,” says Rolfe. “Rou’s dad would drive us all to our first gigs – no matter where they were in the country. Chris’ dad would help us out with printing CDs or t-shirts. Our families have always been really involved in backing us.”
“My dad’s just quite street, I suppose. He seems to just know how to act in most situations,” says Reynolds, when asked if having his father along on tour ever causes any problems. “He’s never been the annoying or embarrassing dad. We’re lucky to have someone we all like and trust helping us out like he does.”
So it is that, when Enter Shikari stagger back to their bus, drunk, worn out and ready for their bunks, Reynolds’ dad just rolls his eyes, laughs and calls them a bunch of “scrubbers”, before the bus rolls out of Hull bound for Nottingham tomorrow.
MORNING FINDS little sign of life of the tour bus. Though their crew have long been up, rolling the band’s gear into Rock City, setting up equipment and dealing with an unexpected PA problem, Enter Shikari remain resolutely asleep until lunch time. Though there was little more action once on board last night – a few rounds of Jack Daniels, one or two more beers, and another game, this time involving hurling a polystyrene skull named, appropriately, Skully around the bus – Enter Shikari know there’s little to do until show time, so keep their curtains drawn.
Outside the venue, though, it’s a different matter. From 7 am, a steadily growing queue of people have started arriving. All already have tickets, all know that the doors won’t open for another 12 hours, yet each person waiting wants to make sure they can get to the barrier first – somewhere they’ll remain, no matter the demands of their bladder, for the entire show.
“It’s because they’re amazing,” says 17-year-old Laura Williamson, as if surprised at being asked to explain why she has travelled here from Coventry, after only an hour’s sleep, to wait half a day to get in. “They’re the best band in the world. I don’t want to risk not being at the barrier. The atmosphere there is just crazy.”
“The energy at the front is amazing and, if you’re not there, you’re not where the energy is,” says her friend Holly Docker from the duvet under which they’re huddled. “They’re worth every minute of this.”
Holly and Laura are by no means isolated cases – this is what happens to Enter Shikari everywhere they go and it’s something the band are at a loss to explain. “Really I have no idea why someone to do that,” says Rolfe, flattered.
Partly though, it’s because of modesty like this that they inspire such loyalty, for there are few bands more down to earth than Enter Shikari. There are no egos, no attitudes, no rock star posturing.
“Well, I suppose that’s just how we’ve been brought up,” says Reynolds. “Trying to be cool is something we just laugh at.”
Ask them if they feel famous – or even think about fame – and they laugh too.
“It’s actually quite weird,” says Rolfe. “The other day I walked out the front of the venue and, suddenly, all these people ran up and started hugging me and asking me for autographs. There’s that side, then there’s the complete opposite when I’m at home with mates or my family. No-one knows who the hell I am or what I do then. There’s a complete flip. If ever I started thinking I was a superstar, it would only take hanging out with my friends to remind me who I really am.”
“I find it quite humorous really,” says Clewlow. “Signing autographs and getting mobbed as if we were big rock stars is really funny because we’re not. I have a group of mates who call me Rock Star to take the piss.”
“Actually, being asked for an autograph when you’re with your friends is odd,” continues Rolfe. “My mates just stand at one side and look at me as if I’m mental.”
“Thinking we’re famous would be a strange thing to do,” adds Clewlow. “I wouldn’t want to hang out with famous people. I don’t know any famous people. Going to local shows with my friends in St Albans is still the most exciting thing I could think of doing on a night out.”
It means that, as the day progresses, tour manager Keith brings in a steady progression of the band’s fans for them to meet. Some have just posted comments on the Enter Shikari’s MySpace site, saying it’s their birthday and wondering if they might be able to say hello, some are just in the right place at the right time. Yet each one finds the band has made time for them, is willing to chat and is keen to make this a special experience for them. “Well, why wouldn’t we?” asks Batten, nonplussed, when asked why it is they do this.
ENTER SHIKARI’S dressing room, a few minutes before show time, is buzzing. People flit in and out, beers are drunk, and the atmosphere edges nearer and nearer towards the delirium with which they’ll hit the stage.
“We don’t tend to get too nervous before we go on,” says Clewlow. “If ever I do, there’s one thing that always makes it melt away. If I’m backstage, getting amped up, and I hear the crowd chanting for us, then it just makes me realise that we’re all on the same page, we’re together.”
It’s this unity that is the overriding factor of an Enter Shikari gig – crowd and band as one.
“Growing up when we’d go and see the local bands in our scene, then a good show was always about how the bands interacted with the crowd and the energy that created as a unit,” says Clewlow. “That’s what a good gig should be.”
“There’s a circle between us and the crowd. We definitely feed off each other,” says Rolfe. “If they’re having a good time, it makes you have a good time. The sheer velocity of the music coming out of the speakers and the crowd screaming in your face really kick-starts your heart.”
It means that, as Reynolds puts it, it’s just “not an option” to go onstage and simply stand there, playing their parts, without engaging with the crowd.
“There have been a few times that I haven’t felt it onstage and I felt really shit about it,” he says. “You feel shit for days afterwards, too. It’s like you’ve somehow tricked people. If there was a chemical equation to make Enter Shikari, then energy would be at least half of it.”
SO, AS they did the night before, and as they will do every time they face a crowd, Enter Shikari hit the stage as if it’s the last night on earth. As a barrage of glow-sticks (something that, secretly, annoys them) coat the stage like a neon, psychedelic carpet, they once again push the energy levels through the roof. And whether you like their music, despise it, or simply don’t understand its appeal, there’s no denying the impact of their live show. Simply, it’s as if raw electricity has been unleashed into the room.
And it’s an electricity that will continue long into the night, long after Enter Shikari disappear from the stage, and into the early hours of the morning. Once again, Reynolds, Rolfe and P-Dex are DJ-ing, this time in a room at Rock City that, as they arrive, is playing Slayer, Amon Amarth and In Flames to a crowd exclusively made up of very big, very angry looking metallers. Predicting that, at the very least, he’ll get punched when he hoiks off the metal to replace it with drum ‘n’ bass, Reynolds grins widely then laughs. “It’ll be funny, anyway,” he says.
Then, to everyone’s amazement, he gets away with it. As some metallers saunter off next door, others stay, headbanging to the breakbeats. Slowly the dancefloor fills and the night gets more and more crazy, the party getting pushed to the limit.
And, as ever, at the very epicentre of the energy, are the four members of Enter Shikari, broad smiles across their faces, sending the fever levels further into overdrive: always wanting more, always getting it.
© Tom Bryant 2012
And then comes the cue and – blam! – they explode onstage. Arms aloft, grins wider, fists pumping the air. They run from one side of the tiny stage to the other: here one second, there the next.
In front of them is a mass of swirling limbs. People surge and push, heaving to the barrier, squashed into the most improbable and personal nooks of the person in front. They’ve earned this spot, front and centre, through day-long queuing in the teeth of a cold Hull wind. Now the hours shivering in impractical t-shirts and with the impenetrable conviction that this is what they <<must>> do in order to show their dedication to this band are paying off.
They’re peaking right now, too, those at the front and those further back. Whipped up by the opening band Flood Of Red, they’re eager for more. And it was delivered in a volley of beats and breakdowns, of dirty bass lines and crowd-stirring frenzy, by the drum ‘n’ bass of support DJ P-Dex. Sweaty and at fever-pitch, the main event can’t arrive soon enough. “This is going to be brilliant,” says one to another. “Come on!” yells another, not with impatience, but as a rallying cry for those, like him, who will be leaving here battered, broken and deliriously happy.
All of this, all this mania, has happened without a single note of Enter Shikari’s music being played. When that flash comes, it’s as if the touch paper has been lit. For the following hour, there are fireworks more volatile and exhilarating than at any Guy Fawkes night party. Band and fans are as one, a whirling circle of energy passes from stage to crowd and back again. First singer Rou Reynolds is in the crowd, still screaming, still urging his songs on. Then guitarist Rory Clewlow clambers along the barrier that lines the side of the room. To the horror of two St John’s Ambulance staff behind him, he dives in as well, still playing his guitar even as hands paw at him, grabbing at his clothes, his instrument, his body.
Bassist Chris Batten is banging his head, kicking his legs and spinning, circling and prowling – his movements the sort that would have him sectioned were he anywhere but onstage. Behind is drummer Rob Rolfe, a blur of arms who, between songs, can be found on his feet to the side of his hi-hat, gurning, thumping his hand into his head and raising the electricity levels into the stratosphere.
They give it their all and they get their crowds’ all in return. Through riffs, happy-hardcore synths, breakbeats, out and out punk, aggression, unity and more, they deliver the Asylum in Hull a night to remember. Then they stagger from the stage, collapsing breathlessly on those flight cases backstage.
Over their shoulders, the crowd pause for a beat too. With lank hair stuck their faces with sweat, t-shirts either ripped or removed, and their breath far from being caught, they take a second to take stock. Those at the front can no longer move, so crammed in are they. Then those at the back, where there is scarcely more room to manoeuvre, squeeze their arms up through the mass of steaming bodies, and so the chant begins: “Enter Shikari! Enter Shikari! Enter Shikari…”
Backstage, the band look at each other and grin again: touched, delighted and re-energised by the support. They’ve only been back here 30 seconds at most. They’ve barely had time to chug down the bottles of water they all clutch. And yet, as Rolfe fires out a quick, “Shall we do it?”, they launch themselves back out there for another two songs. A final assault.
All too soon, it’s over and this time Enter Shikari do collapse backstage. Out front, as the bouncers struggle to clear the room, the crowd look at each other in wonder and admiration. “That was absolutely awesome. They just get better and better. That was by far the best gig I’ve ever been to. Amazing,” says Alex Rogers, half naked and dripping in sweat. “That was quality, everything I expected and more. You’ve got to see them live, they’re fucking excellent,” adds Ryan Denman. “Awesome,” says his mate, Jason Beckett through a broad and exhausted beam, “I’ve never seen them before and this was absolutely brilliant”. “It was just mental,” “sweaty,” “really up there,” “such a good live band,” say Nicholas Richmond and Hannah Gale, their words tumbling over each other’s as, panting, they stagger from the venue to tumble out into the cold night air with the rest of the audience.
In their dressing room, emerging from showers, draining beers and Red Bull, the four members of Enter Shikari give each other a proud nod. “A good day at the office,” says Reynolds. And he’s right.
THE SCENE earlier in the day was very different. With hours to go until show time, Enter Shikari can be found slumped backstage. Reynolds is spinning a few tunes on P Dex’s turntables, (real name Sam, brother of Clewlow and the band’s support DJ). The rest of the band are inventing games to fill in the time. There’s catch the lemon in the cup, catch the lemon in the cup left handed, then just catch the lemon. Next there’s throw the teabag in the cup, throw the teabag box at the cup, then, simply, throw the teabag at each other. “It’s pretty much a case of filling the time before we get onstage. It can get boring,” says Rolfe. “Getting in front of the crowd is what the day’s all about – until that moment, it’s just waiting.”
Today, though, there’s an extra problem. On arrival in Hull, the band discovered that, much to their surprise, the local promoter had organised an official Enter Shikari aftershow and would be charging people for entry. The only problem was that, not only had he not told the band, he was actually surprised when they said that they really ought to be there. “If it’s billed as an Enter Shikari aftershow and then we don’t turn up, then everyone there is going to think we’re arrogant, rock star tossers,” explains an appalled Clewlow. “The promoter didn’t seem to understand that. But it’s sorted now, and Rou, Rob and P Dex are going to DJ.”
As examples of how highly Enter Shikari regard their fans go, this is as good as any. Mortified that anyone might think they were trying to make a fast buck out of those who came to tonight’s show, they went considerably out of their way – even altering their travel arrangements and bus schedules – in order to make amends.
So it is that, as midnight strikes, Enter Shikari wander into one of Hull University’s student bars – a room singularly lacking in anything that might be called personality, style or taste – as the house DJ struggles both manfully and unsuccessfully to encourage those who paid their £2.50 entry fee to take to the dance floor. Most, instead, spend their time clustered around the four members of the band, asking them for autographs, posing for photos and, in the case of one particularly drunk girl, trying desperately and fruitlessly to cop off with Rob Rolfe.
It’s the sort of environment that Enter Shikari love. No matter that this is hardly the world’s greatest party, no matter that the room could take 500 people but is currently occupied by nearer 50, they’re determined to have a good time. “We’re not the sort of band who keep to ourselves,” explains Clewlow. “We tend to embrace parties and extra people around us.”
So, in turn, Reynolds, P Dex and Rolfe take to the turntables, playing a succession of drum ‘n’ bass and, in Rolfe’s case, happy hardcore. To their credit, they begin to fill the dance floor too, though, to be fair, that may have more to do with the £2 pints than the tunes they spin.
It’s a decent night but not a classic and the band seem to know it. They spend much of their time talking to their support band Flood Of Red, old touring friends they’ve not seen for a while, while Clewlow and his brother chat to their cousin – a student at Hull.
In fact, there’s a definite family feel around Enter Shikari. Not only does Clewlow have his brother along as support and his cousin here tonight, Reynolds’ genial and friendly father Keith is the band’s tour manager. On top of that, Batten’s dad helps out with Enter Shikari’s management.
“We’ve always had that, actually,” says Rolfe. “Rou’s dad would drive us all to our first gigs – no matter where they were in the country. Chris’ dad would help us out with printing CDs or t-shirts. Our families have always been really involved in backing us.”
“My dad’s just quite street, I suppose. He seems to just know how to act in most situations,” says Reynolds, when asked if having his father along on tour ever causes any problems. “He’s never been the annoying or embarrassing dad. We’re lucky to have someone we all like and trust helping us out like he does.”
So it is that, when Enter Shikari stagger back to their bus, drunk, worn out and ready for their bunks, Reynolds’ dad just rolls his eyes, laughs and calls them a bunch of “scrubbers”, before the bus rolls out of Hull bound for Nottingham tomorrow.
MORNING FINDS little sign of life of the tour bus. Though their crew have long been up, rolling the band’s gear into Rock City, setting up equipment and dealing with an unexpected PA problem, Enter Shikari remain resolutely asleep until lunch time. Though there was little more action once on board last night – a few rounds of Jack Daniels, one or two more beers, and another game, this time involving hurling a polystyrene skull named, appropriately, Skully around the bus – Enter Shikari know there’s little to do until show time, so keep their curtains drawn.
Outside the venue, though, it’s a different matter. From 7 am, a steadily growing queue of people have started arriving. All already have tickets, all know that the doors won’t open for another 12 hours, yet each person waiting wants to make sure they can get to the barrier first – somewhere they’ll remain, no matter the demands of their bladder, for the entire show.
“It’s because they’re amazing,” says 17-year-old Laura Williamson, as if surprised at being asked to explain why she has travelled here from Coventry, after only an hour’s sleep, to wait half a day to get in. “They’re the best band in the world. I don’t want to risk not being at the barrier. The atmosphere there is just crazy.”
“The energy at the front is amazing and, if you’re not there, you’re not where the energy is,” says her friend Holly Docker from the duvet under which they’re huddled. “They’re worth every minute of this.”
Holly and Laura are by no means isolated cases – this is what happens to Enter Shikari everywhere they go and it’s something the band are at a loss to explain. “Really I have no idea why someone to do that,” says Rolfe, flattered.
Partly though, it’s because of modesty like this that they inspire such loyalty, for there are few bands more down to earth than Enter Shikari. There are no egos, no attitudes, no rock star posturing.
“Well, I suppose that’s just how we’ve been brought up,” says Reynolds. “Trying to be cool is something we just laugh at.”
Ask them if they feel famous – or even think about fame – and they laugh too.
“It’s actually quite weird,” says Rolfe. “The other day I walked out the front of the venue and, suddenly, all these people ran up and started hugging me and asking me for autographs. There’s that side, then there’s the complete opposite when I’m at home with mates or my family. No-one knows who the hell I am or what I do then. There’s a complete flip. If ever I started thinking I was a superstar, it would only take hanging out with my friends to remind me who I really am.”
“I find it quite humorous really,” says Clewlow. “Signing autographs and getting mobbed as if we were big rock stars is really funny because we’re not. I have a group of mates who call me Rock Star to take the piss.”
“Actually, being asked for an autograph when you’re with your friends is odd,” continues Rolfe. “My mates just stand at one side and look at me as if I’m mental.”
“Thinking we’re famous would be a strange thing to do,” adds Clewlow. “I wouldn’t want to hang out with famous people. I don’t know any famous people. Going to local shows with my friends in St Albans is still the most exciting thing I could think of doing on a night out.”
It means that, as the day progresses, tour manager Keith brings in a steady progression of the band’s fans for them to meet. Some have just posted comments on the Enter Shikari’s MySpace site, saying it’s their birthday and wondering if they might be able to say hello, some are just in the right place at the right time. Yet each one finds the band has made time for them, is willing to chat and is keen to make this a special experience for them. “Well, why wouldn’t we?” asks Batten, nonplussed, when asked why it is they do this.
ENTER SHIKARI’S dressing room, a few minutes before show time, is buzzing. People flit in and out, beers are drunk, and the atmosphere edges nearer and nearer towards the delirium with which they’ll hit the stage.
“We don’t tend to get too nervous before we go on,” says Clewlow. “If ever I do, there’s one thing that always makes it melt away. If I’m backstage, getting amped up, and I hear the crowd chanting for us, then it just makes me realise that we’re all on the same page, we’re together.”
It’s this unity that is the overriding factor of an Enter Shikari gig – crowd and band as one.
“Growing up when we’d go and see the local bands in our scene, then a good show was always about how the bands interacted with the crowd and the energy that created as a unit,” says Clewlow. “That’s what a good gig should be.”
“There’s a circle between us and the crowd. We definitely feed off each other,” says Rolfe. “If they’re having a good time, it makes you have a good time. The sheer velocity of the music coming out of the speakers and the crowd screaming in your face really kick-starts your heart.”
It means that, as Reynolds puts it, it’s just “not an option” to go onstage and simply stand there, playing their parts, without engaging with the crowd.
“There have been a few times that I haven’t felt it onstage and I felt really shit about it,” he says. “You feel shit for days afterwards, too. It’s like you’ve somehow tricked people. If there was a chemical equation to make Enter Shikari, then energy would be at least half of it.”
SO, AS they did the night before, and as they will do every time they face a crowd, Enter Shikari hit the stage as if it’s the last night on earth. As a barrage of glow-sticks (something that, secretly, annoys them) coat the stage like a neon, psychedelic carpet, they once again push the energy levels through the roof. And whether you like their music, despise it, or simply don’t understand its appeal, there’s no denying the impact of their live show. Simply, it’s as if raw electricity has been unleashed into the room.
And it’s an electricity that will continue long into the night, long after Enter Shikari disappear from the stage, and into the early hours of the morning. Once again, Reynolds, Rolfe and P-Dex are DJ-ing, this time in a room at Rock City that, as they arrive, is playing Slayer, Amon Amarth and In Flames to a crowd exclusively made up of very big, very angry looking metallers. Predicting that, at the very least, he’ll get punched when he hoiks off the metal to replace it with drum ‘n’ bass, Reynolds grins widely then laughs. “It’ll be funny, anyway,” he says.
Then, to everyone’s amazement, he gets away with it. As some metallers saunter off next door, others stay, headbanging to the breakbeats. Slowly the dancefloor fills and the night gets more and more crazy, the party getting pushed to the limit.
And, as ever, at the very epicentre of the energy, are the four members of Enter Shikari, broad smiles across their faces, sending the fever levels further into overdrive: always wanting more, always getting it.
© Tom Bryant 2012
