Spitting expletives and wearing costumes that would turn heads in a Berlin S&M dungeon, The Warlords Of Pez are here to save Ireland from the po-faced musicians who threaten to take the island over.
To do the job they’ve got a few tricks up their sleeves – charging a mere ¤5.99 for entrance to gigs; enlisting the help of a naked male friend to display their lyrics on a sandwich board (à la Bob Dylan’s ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’ video); dispensing home-made comics before the show and getting loose women to wear tight t-shirts with their unique logo emblazoned across the front. But the real secret weapon this energetic outfit possess is humour. Song titles like ‘Barney Schwarzenegger’, ‘My Beard’, ‘Padre Pio’, ‘Total Sex’ and the wonderfully self-deprecating ‘Warlords Are Shit’ give you a decent indication of their irreverent wit.
The impatient Warlords don’t bother with seven minute epics either. Most of their sonic blasts last roughly 40 seconds and the minimal lyrics for each song tend to involve a healthy dose of shouty repetition. CrawDaddy was packed out by the slightly incestuous cult that follows the Pez from show to show, and the usual audience participation was required (including an attempt by the masked menaces to persuade one of their female devotees into breast feeding an on-stage monitor).
It’s all very juvenile, but The Warlords Of Pez wouldn’t want it any other way. The constant gags are undeniably undergraduate in nature but there are worse things in live music than that. Such as singer-songwriters surrounded by a circle of white candles and their own self-indulgence, while moaning about the ubiquitous lost love that slipped through their fingers. The Warlords, in stark contrast, are more likely to pay homage to serial killers and drunken horses. And their approach is a refreshing change if nothing else.