Photography: Stuart Moulding / @oohshootstu

The Parrots

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  • Psycho Comedy
  • Jo Mary
Harvest Sun at The Magnet

There is that special time when you are able to catch a band within that unique, unformulated and crude moment in their career; the hedonistic and anarchistic depiction of a young carefree rock ‘n’ roll band, offering a consolatory relief against the current backdrop of the, at times, overly produced and curated music industry of today.

Tonight’s band, Madrid garage rockers, THE PARROTS, are firmly occupying that phase. High on the immediacy of their solo debut album Los Niños Sin Miedo and, judging by their merch stand – which includes signed grinders – whatever locally-sourced herbs they managed to get their hands on, they look to bring la fiesta to Merseyside.

An exited and sizeable crowd is already assembling as first support act JO MARY take to the stage; moppy-haired and with drooping postures, the band churn a droney, pounding, psychedelicly bluesy enchantment. The band appear engrossed and enthralled in their music, with the exception off the token tambourine player, who doesn’t surrender his gaze from the crowd for the entirety of the set. Following this strand of the unordinary, the vibrant, maniacal misfit mosaic that is PSYCHO COMEDY, follow. Their music is certainly the least remarkable thing about them, an echo of indie-glam that rings like Fat White Family; however, they have the majority of the audience perplexed and locked in: whether they like what their seeing or not, they’re being entertained. OHMNS complete the stacked, exciting home-grown support for the evening, with a ruthless and brilliant sonic assault, bouncing seething, violent fuzzed-punk around the red padded walls of The Magnet. Their set is a whirlwind of half-naked bodies, stage invasions, strewn limbs and a “pissed-off bald man”, leaving people in attendance feeling like they’ve been flung through a meat grinder.

With the crowd sufficiently loosened and already battered, it’s hard to see where the mood will go. With a reserved and assured aplomb, The Parrots slip onto the stage, beaming grins and evoking their reputed cheery stoner sanguinity. Initial interaction with the crowd is kept to a minimum as they bounce into Let’s Do It Again. Diego Garcia (Vocals) and Alex de Lucas (Bass) erupt into a synchronistic bop as the crowd breakout into loose-hipped and free-flowing cavorting. Diego’s rasping croon and retro-sounding twanging guitar coalesce with the bopping bass and skipping drum beats. The band are able to emulate the intensity and vigour of the previous acts, but with a more party-like insouciant edge, as they loosen up to the crowd, exchanging quips in a mixture of Spanish and English.

It really starts to feel like you’ve been invited to their Madrid flat party, as their amiability and welcoming nature infects the audience, and soon enough the band are sharing the crowd’s drinks; Diego invites a girl to sit with him on stage, and then bounds into the audience, embracing and gleefully bouncing around the ecstatic crowd, before crashing to the ground as a pile of bodies mounts up on top of him.

Drawing the set with No Me Gustas, Te Quiero and Somebody To Love there is a sense of accomplishment as they invite their manager upon stage with them as a singalong ensues.

The aforementioned phase in a band’s career too often burns intensely and short lived before they either progress to mainstream success or descend into obscurity. Tonight there is evidence and subsequent hope to suggest the authenticity and organic nature of this band will sustain them from such fates. Tonight, we all have a blast.

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