Algiers

Precious few artists in recent years have deserved to become "cases" - journalistic even before musical - quite like Algiers. Their whole proposition is built to spark debate, both in the music (a magmatic, layered post-gospel as chaotic as the times that inspire it) and in the lyrics (lucid declarations of war on white, capitalist Western society, not without a troubled spirituality of their own). It's a story that can ideally be triangulated between three cities: Algiers, the symbol-city of decolonization as sung by Frantz Fanon, from which they borrow their name; Atlanta, the outlying mecca of Black music, where they're from and whose vibrant hip-hop tradition they partly absorb; and Detroit, their ideal spiritual homeland, the combative capital of the movement, of the '67 uprisings, of John Sinclair and the MC5, but also of Marvin Gaye's social bulletins and the cyberpunk delirium of the "techno renegades". In the torn howl of Franklin James Fisher, an old-school shouter who combines the explosiveness of Wilson Pickett with the awareness of Gil Scott-Heron (filtered, however, through the terrifying intensity of an Eugene Robinson), you can hear every unheeded cry of the African-American people, from the suffering of slaves on the plantations to the Black Panthers' slogans shouted in the streets of the big cities. The last heirs of radical American counterculture, Algiers are a powerful antidote to the defeatist mediocrity that now reigns unchallenged over indie rock worldwide.

The gamble of the evening will be figuring out how much a formula like theirs - radiating a charging physicality, yet one in which electronics and effects still steal the show - can hold up to the never-obvious test of a live performance. The stage looks bare, save for the eloquent "all power to the people" banner looming behind the amps: a decidedly exciting premise.

Opening the night is the androgynous Californian producer Hiro Kone, who looks like she could be an outside member of Les Rallizes DeNudes but has entirely different visions in mind: a droning roughly half-hour suite that begins with a disturbed spoken sample before evolving, in order, into a still dark-ambient lake, then a more muscular industrial piston, then an electro-chill bridge with vaguely Oriental echoes, finally settling into a more sustained rhythm before gliding back into the detached spoken intro. Overall, a suggestive opening set but, in the long run, not especially incisive, and perhaps not the best fit to kick off an evening built on vibrations of a different nature - not to mention pumped at excessively high volumes (a problem that, as we'll see, will also afflict the main course).

The four of them trickle onto the stage to set up their gear, while Fisher snaps a few photos of the crowd: a recognition of equality entirely consistent with their populist, anti-authoritarian vision. Once they're lined up on stage, the extreme diversity of faces, clothing and attitudes immediately jumps out, and somehow it must feed into the richness of their flavorful "gumbo": the composed guitarist Lee Tesche, dressed in black from head to toe with a foaming-at-the-mouth Travis Bean slung over his shoulder; bassist Ryan Mahan in a denim vest and a colorful headband on his forehead, as if he were a veteran of the very first E-Street Band; drummer Matt Tong (ex-Bloc Party), who looks like a botched lookalike of Damo Suzuki; and of course Fisher, a charismatic street preacher in proletarian garb (if not for the conspicuous guru-like crucifix dangling from his neck).

A loop of noises and words creeps in sinisterly as they finish setting up, then the drums start pounding like a press, Fisher sits down at the Fender Rhodes, and "Cry Of The Martyrs" sweeps over us like an avalanche swelling as it rolls downhill. We're immediately introduced to one of the evening's leitmotifs: the frontman's hyperkinetic frenzy, at times genuinely looking as if he's possessed by some chthonic spirit. After the first verse he stands up, grabs a Stratocaster and starts roughing it up (maybe it's the left-handed grip, but in that moment I think we all thought the same thing), then drops it to grab a cymbal and keeps singing while shaking it like a shamanic rattle. In the chorus the others back him up in a powerful unison choir before leaving him alone for the finale, growled a cappella like a hymn of redemption too fierce to be taken in by human ears.

For the following, apocalyptic "Cleveland", Mahan sets aside the bass and starts fiddling with a controller, in the meantime busting out a strange, disjointed little dance (a bit irritating, to be honest), but the attention is once again all on Fisher, who gestures like a cocky rapper but sings like a seasoned soulman, stretching notes so long they seem to touch the sky. In the middle, a syncopated d'n'b bridge followed by a guitar martyrdom in which vengeance is sworn for every innocent victim of police brutality - a patchwork of registers and styles that these guys always pull off beautifully.

"Walk Like A Panther" opens with a dramatic, very hip-hop-flavored piano loop mixed with a famous speech by Fred Hampton, over which a voice writhes, reverbed and distorted to monstrous effect, as if being rebroadcast by thousands of faulty television sets, while Tesche muddies the waters stroking his guitar with a bow.

The possessed African chant of "Claudette", an admirable juxtaposition of technology and primitivism, rests on a hypnotic interplay between acoustic drums and drum machine, but just as it's about to plunge us into a trance, Fisher jolts us awake with a twisted solo that, who knows why, brings to mind even the Wipers.

Less majestic but more engaging is the much-awaited "The Underside Of Power", the energetic title track of their second and more eclectic album, which starts as a lament à la Suicide before morphing into a Pop Group-style anti-system anthem, interrupted by a passage of pure noise. More than inciting improbable insurrections, Algiers are interested in urging people to reckon with themselves.

A completely different matter is the following "Mme Rieux", without doubt the peak of the concert, a big soul ballad that almost winks at Stevie Wonder, brilliantly led by Fisher on the Rhodes (save for a false start quickly recovered, with the crowd's inevitable empathetic support) amid discreet electronic percussion and guitar drones in the background.

The gallop of "Time To Go Down Slowly" (Nina Simone reinterpreted by a gang of no-wave terrorists) is plagued by some technical issues, but still manages to trot straight through to the end, rebalancing the room's serotonin levels.

After the restless instrumental "Plague Years", where arpeggiators and guitar foam coexist, it's the turn of "Animals", driven by a Daniel Ash-style riff, as penetrating as a drill, amid a continuous barrage of darting loops and the possessed reverend Fisher egging on the faithful with his deafening maracas. In their whirlwind mixing of spat-out verses and darker symbolism, Algiers prove they have very little in common with the toxic gangsta-rap revival that's regrettably flooding contemporary Black music.

"But She Was Not Flying" is a frantic spiritual in which Fisher duets with himself, unexpectedly tinged by a tinkling piano that recalls the Nick Cave of "From Her To Eternity". Finally, a brief introduction of the band, followed by a magnificent "Blood", the single that introduced the world to the wild charge of these voodoo agitators, as well as the song where the indispensable gospel component of their alchemy emerges most, all set to the archaic beat of a busted drum.

"Irony.Utility.Pretext", by contrast, flexes its muscles in a martial EBM pulse, a third-worldist lament built on the contrast between the icy instrumental propulsion and Fisher's tormented performance - the screams of an innocent man crushed by an unfeeling machine. Nothing, however, compared to the Morricone-esque "Death March" that closes the main set, an infernal descent that lives up to its macabre title, the drums thundering like the hammer of a merciless judge and an ending that seems never to end, a catalogue of sins no longer redeemable, the guitars simulating the death rattles of the damned boiled alive. The band leaves the stage bathed in blinding blood-red lights, leaving us alone with our thoughts for a few minutes.

On their return, two final molotovs, both pulled from their self-titled debut: "Old Girl", gloomy funeral bells introducing a tribal choir over solemn piano chords, the redemption of the savage who takes the imposed education and turns it back against the oppressor; and "Black Eunuch", a compromise between the intellectual punk of Gang Of Four and the naïve kind practiced by Death, breathless handclaps and a refined, vaguely math-rock coda.

I came away from this show with a twofold impression: on one hand, there's no denying the impact of their stage presence, the inventiveness of their arrangements, the effectiveness of most of the songs, and the sheer class of a spine-tingling voice; on the other hand, I found myself a bit overwhelmed by the heavy reliance on sonic layering that is nonetheless their trademark, with a truly excessive mass of effects running riot everywhere and an overuse of pre-recorded sequences, never allowing a moment of silence to break up an hour and a half of uninterrupted assault. The main casualties are the internal dynamics of the songs, which tend to flatten out and start sounding alike, even though there are some well-placed emotional shifts along the way. Also, as already noted, the overall volume struck me as pitched too high, especially in the thunderous drum trigger, though that can ultimately work in favour of a show aiming to shake numbed consciences awake. Perhaps the ideal setting to enjoy them is within a festival bill: a shorter set would let the power come through without overloading our eardrums and neurons quite so much.

What struck me most, in the end, was Fisher's extreme reticence: I had imagined him as a fiery orator, yet he didn't utter a single word all evening, and at times he seemed not entirely at ease — a fitting stance, though, for an evidently tormented personality.

Despite these reservations, as I leave Locomotiv I find myself energised, clear-headed and more eager than ever to split the world in two: if I've correctly grasped the mission Algiers have set for themselves, they've achieved exactly what they wanted.

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