Powerhouse is honestly the only word that should be used to describe The Courettes, but by the end of their amazing set at The Georgian, I was left with a fair few more.
From the moment they barged onto the stage, stomping drums and guitars with more than a little fuzz filled the room with a noise impossible to ignore. Flavia’s theatrics, unmistakable attitude and energy only got wilder as the set went on, while Martin bigged up his wife at every opportunity, driving the whole thing forward in the best way a drummer can. And what a bloody good drummer he is, too.
The set covered tracks from all their albums, with two newbies sprinkled in for good measure, and every note was chewed up by the audience before being gleefully spat back out again.
Three-minute glories of fast, ferociousness sat alongside softer (yeah, right) doo-wop ditties – a welcome break for us dancers – but even those had melting breakdowns thrown in, with plenty of crash, bang, wallop.
I was a sweaty mess by the end, but so were the band. Surely that’s a sign it was a bloody good gig.
