Live Review: Fatti Frances, Cocks Arquette, Vaccum, Nerve

Thick dry ice fills this low-ceilinged basement to the brim, which sets a shadowy scene. Seemingly decked out for a modern-day pagan ritual, the room is simply lit by flickering candles that line the walls, one of which is (strangely) being filmed by tonight's headlining act. Opener Nerve (or, what appears to be only half of the duo) blends a dense mixture of guitar and computerised elements into noisy, industrial techno. Distortion is laid on thick, offering echoing vocals over a frenetic, paranoid beat. A couple in the crowd bop their heads in appreciative unison.

Vacuum's soundcheck is a test in eardrum resilience and this turns out to be true of their loudly buzzing set as a whole. The two women are purveyors of rhythmic, junkyard electronica. Their commanding, spoken-word vox power over the screeching beats and layered loops, which are produced by the enthusiastic smacking of synth pads. Their staggered harmonising is difficult to pull off, however, and occasionally jars.

Grinding outfit Cocks Arquette draw a dedicated group of fans into the cavernous basement for a unique taste of piercing apathy. Characterised by unmelodious thrashing, the band unleash a messy spell of dark noise-rock with a touch of '90s grunge. Vocalist Simon J Karis hangs from the ceiling's low rafters and stumbles aggressively across the floor while giving the mic hell against the backdrop of urgent strumming. He switches from furious spoken-word rambling to full-on screamo blow-outs. Impressively evoking the feeling of pessimism and utter hopelessness, Karis is much like the musical equivalent of Munch's painting The Scream – if it sported an Adidas hoody.

In stark contrast to her supports, the ambient nature of headliner Fatti Frances (aka Raquel Solier) sees the room littered with colourful beams of light that filter through her long, dark hair in an atmospheric fashion. The crowd has petered out slightly, which adds to the intimacy of Solier's performance. Sparkling, ponderous, and sleep-inducing (in a good way), her intricate disco sensibilities feature a stuttering drum machine that fuels an incredibly gradual, withheld build-up. Her introduction of in-your-face vocals, in the vein of The Knife's Karin Dreijer Andersson, provides some extra texture and attitude. Towards the end of her set, Solier steps up the danceable beats with She's Watching, offering some spacey, '80s nostalgia akin to a trippy arcade game. Calmly, Solier closes this night of four impressively sprawling sets that showcase the individuality of each act's multi-genred approach.