Next up was the building frenzy of Taymir (pronounced tie-meer), a group of indie rockers from Amsterdam whose set starts out promising to be rather demure, with babyfaced lead singer Bas Prins in a button-up shirt tucked into office slacks fidgeting about the way he’s holding his hands behind his back (one hand holding the opposite arm or both hands clasped together? Let’s try it the other way again…).
The music is rock delivered with the nonchalance and catchiness of pop, and soon everybody in the room is bopping silently in their own little music appreciation bubble. The only element that feels out of place in the room is one dude in the front row. He’s conspicuous not only because he’s wearing an untucked pink button up shirt with two rows of ruffles down the front, but also because he is engaging what would ultimately be the only incidence of bro fist pumping to be witnessed at Culture Collide. It looked out of place, unnatural, here.
The set heats up, and as the bassist makes small, intensive movements over his strings, Prins begins unleashing a series of unaffected Mick Jagger-esque hip movements. It seems that this is his element after all, and he’s starting to loosen up. He, too, has noticed the ruffled dude.
“That’s a really nice shirt, man,” he yells out with a grin, and the guy flashes a self-satisfied smile around the room. The next most of the crowd would notice of him would be ten minutes later, when he is headlocked and officially escorted out of the room by the back of the neck for invading the personal space of several women in the audience.
“This next song is called ‘Good Times’… no, wait,” Prins says, turning around. “It’s called ‘He’s Gotta Fix His Snare.’” The crowd’s attention turns to the drummer, who is merrily patching up a hole in his snare drum with duct tape. “Did you know that the tongue of a blue whale weighs as much as one whole elephant?” Prins vamps while everyone waits.
As they get into the infectiously rhythmic “What Would You Say,” the whole band gets into it. The drummer is animated, goofing around and mouthing the lyrics out of what seems to be pure excitement as he strikes his newly fixed drum. Prins is dancing across the stage, banging his head to the music and spastically tambourining. His cheeks are flushed red and the top buttons of his shirt have come undone.
“I don’t know why you treat me like a fool and I don’t miss you!” he yells into the mic, sweat running down his face, “A fool and I don’t miss you…”
Written by Bojana Sandic
Photography by David Reeve