46. The Aristocrats
The Garage
17 February 2014
A band that’s two-thirds Steven Wilson alumni and 100% likely to own at least one cape. The Aristocrats are the kind of musical outfit that happens when three world-class session musicians accidentally fall into the same wormhole and emerge as a progressive rock-jazz-fusion coven with a serious fondness for cheeky song titles and fretboard gymnastics.
The axis of this improbably talented triangle? Guitar warlock and probable D&D dungeon master Guthrie Govan, rhythmic octopus Marco Minnemann on drums, and prog bassist/dark wizard Bryan Beller, who looks like he could summon weather patterns with a fretless solo.
Together, they form what can only be described as a high-functioning musical cult. If you told me their rehearsals took place in the Room of Requirement and were powered by ale and complex time signatures, I wouldn’t question it. Honestly, their combined aesthetic falls somewhere between Hogwarts faculty meeting and a 1975 Open University Lecture on Transistors.
Musically, this is instrumental prog-jazz turned up to eleven on the virtuoso-o-meter. Govan’s mane acts as an aerial for celestial shred frequencies, Minnemann drums like he’s an over-caffeinated squid, and Beller holds it all down with bass lines so jazzy, we spotted, black turtle-necked hipsters nodding knowingly.
Watching them at The Garage, a venue so intimate it feels like someone converted a slightly cursed broom cupboard into a gig space; like stumbling into a pub quiz run by Gandalf. The audience are pint-clutching men of a certain age, nodding solemnly while mouthing along to polyrhythmic breakdowns and occasionally noodling air guitars. Then just when it gets to its most strokey, they launch into “Sweaty Knockers.”
That’s the title. “Sweaty. Knockers”. A self-aware tribute to the English seaside postcard humour of old. And honestly, it’s a welcome wink amid the wizardry; proof that whilst their fingers are terrifyingly serious, their brains are still firmly lodged in the pub.
However, here’s the thing. The playing is impeccable. Genuinely, brain-meltingly brilliant. But emotionally, it is slightly colder than a Vulcan’s tickle. This is the kind of music that dazzles your frontal cortex but doesn’t necessarily worm its way into your soul. It’s like watching three Olympic gold medallists showing off their moves: awe-inspiring, but not something you’re going to whistle.
Yet, despite the lack of radio-friendly hooks, there’s something infectious about their sheer joy in what they’re doing. They’re oddballs. Savants. Prog jesters. And they know it. Which makes it all the more delightful when they smile mid-solo, as if to say, “Yes, we’re playing in 17/8, and yes, this song is called Stupid 7, and no, we’re not sorry.”
So, you may leave the gig without a single tune lodged in your brain, but you’ll carry the memory of watching three musical weirdos conjure absurd magic from their instruments like it’s nothing. They’re an odd-looking bunch, united by their sheer talent and good-natured absurdity. But for now, off you pop, lest Professor Snape give you detention for being late to Potions class.