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July 16, 2018 | by  | in TV |
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Chris Dave and the Drumhedz

Despite having a name that sounds like it was concocted by a 12-year-old idiot, Chris Dave and the Drumhedz was a musical experience that shook me to the core. I walked out into the Courtenay Place evening feeling as if I had just witnessed Miles Davis touring Bitches Brew, or Sun Ra and his Arkestra, or Herbie Hancock.
Chris “Daddy” Dave is on that level. A master of his craft. A genius of sound.
Before the show starts there is a heat in the air that is felt more in the bones than in flesh. People already know they are about to get their minds slayed. Two crowd members can’t handle it and begin frantically making out as if they are strapped into a nosediving 747 and want to get in a final facefuck before their lips are melted into their skulls.
Suddenly the lights dim, and a myriad of overlapping vocal audio fills the room. Onto the stage the musicians walk. Four men, oozing cool like a third degree burn oozes pus, sit at their instruments. The keyboardist, Bobby Sparks, who with bandana, hooped earring, and gold bangles and looking like some kind of jazz pirate, stands surrounded by his keys with a bottle of Glenmore whisky on the case. Chris Dave sits at his batshit drum set, deconstructed cymbals spiral alongside him. No other percussionist has ever looked worthier of calling their stool a throne.
The band erupts. To call it a cacophony does not do the group justice. Sure, each member flails at their instruments, pushing it to the absolute limits of their craft, but cacophony insinuates an uncontrollable mess, and The Drumhedz are nothing if not in control.
The guitarist, Isaiah Sharky, incredibly has the ability to scat a vocal melody of the exact guitar line as he plays it. The bassist, Nicholas McKnight, works within a constantly moving time signatures while managing to keep funky, sleazy, and cool all lined up in a row. The boss man, Chris “Daddy” Dave thrashes, bashes, and fucks up everything you thought you knew about beats and bandleading. He does this while staying in a pocket so tight you would have trouble slipping a 20 cent piece into it. The band is at times smoother than gelato and at others faster than “Through the Fire and Flames” played on Guitar Hero on expert level. At times I could swear that the man I was watching drum had four arms. Being a witness to such a performance is both exhilarating and terrifying. Terrifying because I could literally feel my face melting into my lap at every passing second. Exhilarating because duh. Every band member shredded to the point that they could shred no more. It was the first time in my life I had involuntary leapt out of my seat to give a standing ovation. The Drumhedz earned it.
With these words I wish to grab you by your ears and get in your face, baring my teeth, bad breath projecting hard into your olfactory senses as I implore you, GO AND WATCH SOME FUCKING JAZZ. But please remember to bring a spare face. It is highly likely that yours will be melted off.

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