Tortoise really get on some people's nerves. "Next time some skinny-assed jackass in a Charlie's Angels T-shirt and baggy pants tries to tell you that Tortoise is the greatest band since Stars of the Lid, slice off their ears with a letter opener," says one internet soapbox. Before the final tune in their gig, part of the Meltdown festival, one person boos and tells them to get on with it.
"We're getting on with it," says the drummer, unruffled. He asks who saw Public Enemy on the same stage. Joining in with the resulting cheers, he adds: "Fuck George Bush and Tony Blair."
You can see why they aggravate. In their darkest hour, the Chicago quintet sound like a domestic row between Mike Oldfield and Deep Purple. Some pieces stumble in like a stroppy teenager and flounce out again without shutting the door. Tunes are fraught with indecision: a beautiful, Morricone-like opening is driven through by a juggernaut of feedback; a cop-show riff is trampled on by an irate R2D2; hypnotic minimalism gets bounced out by a giant marshmallow of synthesiser bass. If Tortoise ran a restaurant, they would serve spaghetti with petrol.
Which is what also makes them terrific. Opening with Blackjack, a cranky concoction of harpsichord, tremolo guitar and vibes (plus some thrash), the quintet push their instruments with a healthy disregard for the segregation of noise and sound. A keyboard player prods his synth from an uncomfortable distance, as if defusing a bomb.
The central track of the set rambles into prog-rock, but ends in such a scrunch that any sound you can imagine seems to be happening. Off these walls of sound, some of the simplest, smiling bits of rock fall. It is the two vibraphones that allow them to bind (or get away with not binding) such extremes: they give exotic flavours (demented quiz programme, cocktail hour, and a Steve Reich touch) but also stop anything being plain rock.
The highlight is Seneca, which starts as a Hendrix-like national anthem and ends up in a clapping game. The clapping doesn't stop, so festival curator Lee Scratch Perry and the Mad Professor join for an encore.
"Change your life, change your wife," he rhymes at one point in the half-hour jam. Then he blesses us and sends us on our way.
