florence and the mules
Florence and the Machine / The Mules
Koko 07.10.08
The Mules‘ angular gypsy-skiffle echoes across the cobblestones of fog-shrouded Old London Town, a deathly pale Ron Mael in undertaker’s garb creeping up behind you with a pale finger outstretched and quivering. Doomy piano stomp and spiraling violin, a troubadour of a drummer — if that’s even possible — and even a swerve into skewed boogie-woogie at one heady juncture: The Mules put the fun into funereal.
Florence and the Machine make a Russian doll of a racket. Florence Welch arrives like a glitter-flecked white witch, her enchanted voice filling the room like smoke curling in the morning sun, then clouding that very sun and punching you in the face. Every song unveils a new layer of bluesy, twinkly noise, Florence singing like Kate Bush on an assertiveness course and dancing like a dryad on her third snakebite and black. She may close with a song called Dog Days Are Over, but none of the spellbound crowd believe it for a second.