Live Review: Hudson Mohawke, Mr Carmack

Oxford Art Factory is far more interesting than a gym.

Want to lose weight? You should have been at Hudson Mohawke tonight. 5kg lost, minimum. Sure, air flow in that place is not the best, but this reviewer challenges anyone to write in with recollections of a hotter, sweatier night than this one. Seriously: one for the books. And we have one unkempt Scotsman to thank. HudMo, you nearly killed us.

Mr Carmack played a tight warm-up set that navigated through some heavy-hitting hip hop, some footwork, some future-bass, and whatever else he could get his greedy little hands on. It was a very well put together set with no seams and some expertly timed tonal shifts that deftly guided the room into the small hours. Either he had the whole thing pre-recorded or his knack for set-building is off the charts. The build-ups and releases were spot on without being repetitive, and his textural control was great.

This was the real fucking deal.

One thing stood out though: slam-dancing. WTF? Who does that at a hip hop gig? Some heavy-hitting bass certainly called for some solid movement, but fucking up the dancefloor with shitty behaviour is not acceptable. Rant over.

HudMo transitioned neatly, and promptly let fly with his spazz-hop technicolour mixtape, whipping the floor into a frenzy. It was a spectacular set that thankfully was far more streamlined than Butter. He littered the set with his own material and was generous with everything else. It was balanced, full-blooded and gritty, without being hyper-masculine or jittery. It pushed forward relentlessly yet smoothly, and we frothed and swayed and slid about in a gross/sexy sweaty mess that threatened to collapse in a heap.

How far HudMo has come since his show at the Manning Bar a couple of years ago. This was the real fucking deal.