Review taken from Sandmanmagazine:
Leftfield electronica brings to mind images of pale, delicate young men who surround themselves with archaic technology, avoid daylight and wet themselves with excitement at the mere mention of Autechre. This stereotype was truly shat on by The Bug (aka Kevin Martin) a man obsessed with low-end bass and pushing sound systems over the edge with his industrial strength dancehall/ragga sound clash. Kevin Martin is legendary in his demented pursuit of title of ‘Loudest Bastard ever.’
Apparently he had investigated the Corporation’s innards earlier in the week, denounced it as too puny and demanded a further shedload of bass bins for his set.
On the coldest, snowiest day for some time (reflected in the low attendance) we entered a Corp that was freezing, empty and resembled a scene from Escape from New York in it’s stark metallicness. Every grandma’s favourite, the most notorious Kid Acne was straddling the decks with his party hippetty hop. Sheffield’s own boomtown rat threw a few shapes, dropped some large tunes plucked from the bag labelled ‘Bad Boy Bangers’ and rambled away on the mike. ‘It’s your boy Acne,’ ‘This is Invisible Spies Day Release’ and the staple hip-hop warrior cry, ‘Word.’
Just as the dapper Acne began to announce the impending arrival of the distinctly unchristian Bug, the Corp was flooded with so much dry ice it felt like we were lost at sea in a thick fog. You couldn’t see a fucking thing. Due to our consumption of Newcastle Ale and numerous fatty boom batties this made even the sparsely populated dance floor a treacherous place. The Bug’s set began amidst this deliberate disorientation and pummelled the crowd with hard ragga bombs. Resembling a sinister ogre, dwarfed by equipment and volume he deafened those present with his huge, grimey take on dancehall, aided by two barley visible MCs.’Beats, Bombs, Bass, Weapons’ encapsulates both the sound and the ridiculousness of the man.
Full marks to the C90 crew for bringing this sicko up to Sheffield. Whilst lazier promoters stick with tired old names and insipid line-ups they insist on delving into more marginal and seedier corners of the leftfield. They’re continuing to skulk around at the back of the ‘clubbing’ class flicking the vs at more tedious ventures. Nights like this, where the morning after your ears are ringing like a pair of massive bells, can only be a good thing. - Words: Jim Ottewill