When I saw “The Egg” next to stellar acts like The New Deal and !!! on the Camp Bisco VII bill last summer, I assumed that festival organizers/namesakes the Disco Biscuits were trying to save a little money by filling out the excellent schedule with crappily named bands from their local Philadelphia.
Not the case. It wasn’t quite the British Invasion, but it was apparently a gigantic deal when the Biscuits managed to snag similarly techno-jammy London band The Egg for their annual summer festival. The Internet festered as the notoriously passionate Biscuits’ nation collectively soiled themselves when it was announced that these longtime runners of the UK live-band electronica game were coming to the US.
Luckily, I was not one of these incontinent folks as, like most of the nation, I had never heard of this stupidly-named band. But trusting the Biscuits tastes, I decided to use the magic of the Internet to track down some of their recordings and see what all the fuss was about.
Not much. Though they have some stellar moments, on record, The Egg are pretty average—they kind of sound like the Disco Biscuits if the Disco Biscuits didn’t like to party, or conversely, Air if the Frenchmen partied like hedonists. So when I saw that they were coming to town, I didn’t exactly have to reach for my Depends. But, being a certified painter, I figured some show is better than no show, so I went back for round two.
NOW I know what all those Biscuits kids were geeking about on the Internet last summer—The Egg is awesome live. Funkily electronic but not passé, house-y but not cheesy, The Egg combine professional cohesiveness with Ben Cullun’s filthy bass playing, catering to a rowdy dance party and doing the Disco Biscuits proud.
None of this is to say that they didn’t indicate why their records are underwhelming. Except for Cullun, no one in The Egg is that good. The keyboards are repetitive, largely un-improvised, and technically un-wowing. The drumming is all of these things but more so, with Maff (lol) Scott ceaselessly banging out the same rhythms song in and song out: like the Energizer bunny, only with much worse teeth.
That said, The Egg perform with the savvy and cohesiveness of a band with nearly 15 years of touring experience. Effortlessly segueing between songs and visibly communicating transitions to each other on stage, The Egg may not have displayed impressive chops, but they definitely maximized their abilities. The criminally small but obviously appreciative “crowd” seemed to appreciate the limited lag time between songs—I haven’t seen the Middle East’s wooden floor so covered in sweat since that nightmare I had a few years ago whereby the club was turned into a sauna and sat around sweating with Chris Matthews and Pat Robertson.
As impressed as I was with their professionalism, I was equally impressed with their bassist. Ben Cullun can play—anything from groovy funk rhythms to propulsive house to relaxed noodling, he got the “crowd”’s collective booty shakin’ almost right away and never really stopped. While the drums were mindlessly interminable, Cullun’s sustained bass rhythms shifted rationally, creatively, and dynamically, and at points, threatened to steal the show from the whole band.
More often though, The Egg’s whole was substantially greater than the sum of its parts. The Egg aren’t amazing, but they’re professional, smooth, and polished (obviously—they’re from the same country as James Bond), they have a killer bassist, and they throw down live. If they ever come back to Amurrica, I may be needing needing those diapers after all.
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