When Pere Ubu’s front man and only consistent member David Thomas arrives on stage he strikes a fragile figure. Supported by a cane and spending the duration of the gig in a chair – it’s quickly revealed that Thomas was in intensive care only two days prior to the show. Not that he seems to think this is much of a big deal. He orders the rest of the band to relax when he thinks his vulnerable state may be effecting their playing and shrugging it off by nonchalantly stating “the current score is grim reaper: 0 – David Thomas: 3”. Clearly his near death experience hasn’t resulted in Thomas loosing any of his bite, berating his band with often contradictory commands; “none of that creepy arty-farty stuff!” he barks, which is a pretty tall order for a band that includes a clarinet and Theremin in its core instruments. They don’t seem particularly phased by all this, but its unclear whether they’ve just grown accustomed to his temperamental nature or maybe its all part of the act. Only the drummer seems to be at a loose end from Thomas constantly picking on him, and at some points attacks his drum set with such vigor you have to think he’s probably imagining hitting Thomas’ head. Despite the protests to the contrary its the presence of the ‘creepy arty-farty stuff’ that makes their music such a unique experience, blending blue-collar proto-punk simplicity with elements of improvised jazz and minimalist modern classical music, it somehow manages to feel lofty and experimental and gritty and real all at the same time
 
With the sometimes free flowing playing style and Thomas sitting down reading his lyrics from a folder in front of him, it can often feel a bit like a poetry recital, whilst at other times it resembles more a surreal Dadaist performance play. Right in the middle of recent album highlight ‘Bus Station’ he abruptly orders the song to stop and takes off one of his socks with a disgruntled sigh, as if this is an obligatory task he doesn’t particularly want to do. He then stands up and slowly turns around, waving the white sock above his head like he’s trying to flag down a plane whilst stranded on a desert island. Once he’s finished this bizarre show he sits back down and the song carries on from where it left off. “The ladies love the sock dance”, he explains in a deadpan, and the audience seems to resoundingly agree. Everyone is massively entertained by his unpredictable antics. In the least conventional sense possible, there is something weirdly life-affirming about Thomas’ refusal to allow his brush with mortality to soften his eccentricity, or his bile, in the slightest.
 
The final song of the encore is some kind of No-Wave version of an advertising jingle. Sarcastically Thomas encourages everyone to buy the band’s merchandise. Apparently if you buy one of their t-shirts your girlfriend won’t think you’re so much of a fuck-up anymore, which is a particularly enticing proposition. David Thomas deserves to be mentioned in the same breath as the great cult iconoclasts of rock, such as Zappa, Beefheart and Robert Smith. Much like them he is totally uncompromising in both the singular vision of his music and his abrasive personality. The grim reaper is going to have his work cut out.
Louis Ormesher
 
Website: ubuprojex.com