The most hyped drum and bass act of the decade preach to the converted at Family.

I have a confession. I hate Pendulum. At least I thought I did. Now I am sure of it. Not that I bear any grudges against the guys specifically. They are probably quite reasonable people who shower regularly and are nice to their mothers. You see, it’s quite easy to hate on Pendulum – the endless tirades of heated forum debate will attest to this. While there is little point in denying that such attitudes exist, perhaps something can be gained by questioning why this group divides opinion like no other before it.

Indeed I received some perplexed reactions upon declaring that I was going to see Pendulum – a cardinal sin in the circles of more discerning junglists. I’d convinced myself, (and others, I think) that was acting on the pretext of research. A revealing sociological exploration of the mainstream’s ceaseless ability to assimilate even the most unlikely of underground sounds. Or something. All high brow, like.

So it was that I ventured selflessly into the field to studiously observe the curious behaviours of the neophyte junglist. In the interests of maintaining the highest standard of journalistic integrity I had taken a solemn oath to suppress my cynicism to only a mild level of jadedness. With one hand on a battered copy of Knowledge, I took a vow – to limit my chinstroke to a mere intermittent caress of my stubble, and to modify my screwface to a minor scowl.

Arriving at Family shortly after 10pm, Rude Bwoyz kingpin DJ Erther was at the reins dishing out smooth tuneage to a lively, mixed group of punters – including some of the most uncoordinated people to ever wield a glowstick. I can’t quite recall the last time that such garish reflective rave pants got an airing at a Thursday night rinse out. Regardless, Erther played a functional warm up slot, consistently luring more people to the floor – although it wouldn’t have been difficult considering the rapid rate at which the main room was filling.

A somewhat curious choice of programming saw the tempo halve for the hip hop stylings of the UK’s Spit Kingdom collective. Redirecting the audience attention 180 degrees to the stage, DJ Skeletrik sauntered to the decks before the boisterous MC Trip bounded onto the stage. Despite the drop in pace, the London MC did his darnedest to ensure the energy level was retained, dancing and gyrating wildly. Victoriously announcing the arrival of the Spit Kingdom, the shouty exhortations of Trip prepared the crowd to “get ready to be rinsed the fuck out”.

As Skeletrik let go of his first record an ominous low hum gave way to a solid hip hop beat, which was soon matched with the MC’s clichéd call and response routine. Trip interspersed this nonsense with the hallmark of every sub-standard hype man – each utterance of tonight’s headliner bringing a predictably raucous response. With a tele-evangelcial zeal akin to Anthony
Robbins, he promised those in attendance a “life changing experience…something you’ve never seen before”. He might’ve mentioned something about a forthcoming album, but I suspect it was merely a ploy to peddle his motivational tapes after the show.

Humility clearly not his strong hand, Trip continued to prowl the stage, imploring the crowd to get buckwild. It was all about the MC at this point in the night, with Skelektrik serving as a mere prop for Trip’s egotistic rants – three (consecutive!) rewinds and one stilted drop into Roots Manuva’s Witness being the sum of the DJ’s contribution to the evening.

However, when beatbox extrordinaire Killa Kela finally joined his crew on stage, Skeletrik might have well packed up his records altogether. Having worked with such luminaries as Justin Timberlake and Pharrell, Kela has honed his technique to a point that left the DJ redundant. The beats that flowed forth from his larynx were imbued with a funk that sparked unprecedented dancefloor action. Australian Idol finals night aside, when was the last time you saw a thousand people bust a move to a beatbox performance?

Kela ran through a series of slick routines that had much of the crowd alternately grooving and collectively picking their jaws off the ground. Those familiar with Philly rap icon Rahzel would’ve recognised the technique implemented by Kela as he simultaneously sounded the beats and melody to Suzanne Vega’s Tom’s Diner. Between his natural charisma and skills, the beatbox phenomenon amazed the audience to such an extent Trip’s earlier braggadocio seemed almost justified.

In the brief interim preceding the headliner’s appearance, a growing chant of “Pen-joo-lum” slowly emerged. The crowd’s impatience was made vocal in a moment that eerily echoed Mixmag’s assertion that Pendulum are “the drum and bass equivalent of stadium rock”. The verdict is most definitely still out as to whether or not this is in fact a good thing. I’m leaning towards “guilty, as charged”.

El Hornet finally emerged as the sole representative of the Perth trio – provoking more than one utterance of “I thought they were a band” from the JJJ spoon-fed contingent. The Perth DJ efficiently worked through a rapid succession of simplified, driving DnB. Barring the occasional half speed intro, there was little to rhythmically distinguish each track as El Hornet dispensed his selections. Not that it mattered, as the tightly packed dancefloor enthusiastically bobbed up and down in a dense mass which precluded any real dancing. For the less than discerning audience, perhaps a bass heavy metronome ticking at 175bpm would’ve sufficed.

All of their big tunes from Hold Your Colour were duly rolled out, each receiving a predictably rapturous response, including the truly awful sing-alongs choruses of “Tarantula” and “Painkiller”. Disappointingly their Taz and Beefy remizx was a glaring omission. Surely Kela could’ve been brought back to the stage for a heart-warming rendition of this landmark foray into beatboxing excellence?

One trait which might’ve gone unnoticed by much of the audience was El Hornet’s insistence on layering tunes over almost the full length of other tracks. Whilst perhaps a necessary feat of skill in the context of a minimal set, this approach seems to often work against the busy structures of DnB. Perhaps indicative of Pendulum’s scant regard for the genres roots, El Hornet saw it fit to impose the trio’s own synth-led productions on top of older tunes that were rendered barely discernible under the rabble. Stone cold classics such as Bad Company’s The Nine, Krust’s Warhead and D-Bridge’s classy True Romance were all victims to this folly, infuriating the few old schoolers in attendance.

While the young crowd’s enthusiasm was remarkable, unfortunately the music was not. Given the sheer hysteria invoked by such dross, it is evident that I am in the minority with this viewpoint. Thursday night certainly did nothing to sway my opinion. Pendulum’s sound lacks the subtlety, funk and critically, the mystery that once made the genre so appealing as a form of music. The intricate breakbeat manipulation that was the very essence of jungle has given way to a hyperactive flurry of mid-range tomfoolery, anchored by a simplistic two-step beat. As DnB further pursues this direction, the less it is distinguished from other genres, gradually merging with the increasingly amorphous mass that is rave music. Perhaps Pendulum has cunningly tapped into the same energy that makes euphoric trance massively popular. Or electro house. Or even Robbie Williams, for that matter.

As sheer populist escapism, Pendulum are without peer in their genre. They have succeeded in bringing drum and bass to the masses – only time will tell whether the reverse statement also holds true.