The Libertines
Brixton Academy, Friday 5 March
This was an enjoyable shambles.
When it comes to the Libertines, ‘shambles’ is not a criticism. It’s what they do. Chaos is what they’re best at. That meant they’re a band always worth seeing. You never know quite what you’re going to get, and surely unpredictability is part of what drives people to see live music? For example, I hated the Kills when I saw them last year, because they played along to a backing tape. We knew exactly what we were going to get. Even in an encore, there could be no spontaneity. Whereas with the Libertines, they teeter always on the brink of collapse.
I know I’m not supposed to like them. I look down on bands hyped in the pages of NME and similar comics. I am suspicious of them. I tried not to like this lot, but in the end what can you do? If you like the noise a band makes, what else matters? Up the Bracket is a great LP, filled with excitement and enthusiasm, a true debut album where there’s a clatter of a thousand ideas, a rush to say everything you want to say at once and an absence of insulating gloss. It’s a record to grasp immediately and then cherish for a long time. So what can I say? I gave in.
And I’d always go and see them live because they play on the edge. Anything might happen. This is a band that fundamentally doesn’t make sense. Two front men almost compete for your attention. They often share the same microphone, and seem on the point of kissing, or fighting, or both. Yet the drummer holds it all together. So frequently they look back and take their cue from him. You only feel sorry for the bassist. He’s the only one who still has his shirt on at the end.
When I saw them at the Kentish Town Forum at the end of last year they struck me as surprisingly tight. Not so this night. They are all over the shop. They play the songs too fast. Often, they get so excited, get caught in the wrong space, that they forget to sing. Microphone stands never stand for long. This means you don’t hear the songs at their best. Cherished lines are thrown away, favourites are clattered through at top speed, but by god it’s fun. I’m an old grump who always gets seats when available, but as soon as the band come on every single person stands up and stays standing.
They play everything on the LP and new songs that sound like the old songs. They play all their best songs too early and by the end it feels a bit stretched because they’ve forgotten to finish with some crowd pleasers. The lights go on without an encore but really there’s nothing left to play. They got to the end of the night without self-destruction, and people seem mildly disappointed.
They will not be around forever this band. See them while you can.
12 March 2004
27 February 2004
The Broken Family Band
The Broken Family Band and Garlic, the 100 Club, Thursday 12 February
I begin to approach the point of obsession with this band.
Still, that's the great thing about music, isn't it? You ride the wave of your enthusiasm. You go and see a band again and again. You hunt down their records. Then someone else comes along. This time next year, you've got yourself a different favourite band.
At the moment, it's this daft, English, indie country outfit for me. I love the Broken Family Band. Even better, this was the first time I have seen them as a headlining band. Previously they've been in support slots, and suffered that middle of the bill fate of being squeezed between a slack early outfit and the need to give the main band a decent run before the curfew. This gave them room to breath and the confidence that comes from knowing people have paid just to see you. They stretched out and enjoyed that space, playing a wider range of songs than I'd seen them play before: by now firm favourites from Cold Water Songs, older songs from the King Will Build a Disco and new ones from the forthcoming and excellent Jesus Songs.
Before that we had support band Garlic. Rubbish name, decent band. I'd got one or two of their records but hadn't seen them live before. Americana, underpinned by tremendous pedal steel guitar playing from a man who didn't look like he was with the rest of the band. I shall seek out their records.
Of course we were all waiting for the hip, chart-topping sounds of the Broken Family Band. The singer appeared to have brought his dad with him, which was nice. Sitting at the side of the stage, I could see things I hadn't noticed before. Previously I'd seen them head on the Water Rats, and you notice the charismatic singer and his burly henchman on acoustic guitar. There's more to them than that. The drummer and bassist are great too. They keep it all going.
You can't help but smile at the words, you can't help but tap you feet to the tunes and you can't help but watch the singer, who has buckets full of stage presence. You emerge from a Broken Family Band gig happy, and ready to see them again. Particularly good on this night were two of my favourites, the lovely Queen of the Sea and the scary Twelve Eyes of Evil. Because they were headlining they could save their two best known songs for last, so we finished with a rip-roaring Don't Leave That Woman Unattended and I Don't Have The Time To Mess Around. As an ending, it could not be bettered.
I love the 100 Club as well. It's the perfect venue, and shows most indie shitholes up for the toilets they are. It's slap bang in central London, the staff are civilised, you can sit down, you can get a drink without being ignored for ten minutes first and when you get that drink you can get a proper pint of beer in a glass instead of a can of something dubious and expensive with something plastic to drink it in. I recall the days when I pretty much lived in the Duchess of York in Leeds and if the bands were rubbish at least you could drink the beer. The 100 Club's true act of genius is to have the stage down the long side of the room rather than at the end. In so many indie venues the stage is at the end of the room and you all stand together in a sort of corridor trying to get a glimpse of the band. Here, the people who want to get down the front can while miserable gets like me can sit round the side, listen to the music and watch the band. Can't understand why everywhere isn't like this, and it shows what low standards we usually accept. Shame they normally get ropy bands on, mind.
For once, though, it had all come together. It was the perfect band for the perfect venue. We left exhilarated. And to nurture that obsession, I've already bought tickets to see the Broken Family Band again in March.
I begin to approach the point of obsession with this band.
Still, that's the great thing about music, isn't it? You ride the wave of your enthusiasm. You go and see a band again and again. You hunt down their records. Then someone else comes along. This time next year, you've got yourself a different favourite band.
At the moment, it's this daft, English, indie country outfit for me. I love the Broken Family Band. Even better, this was the first time I have seen them as a headlining band. Previously they've been in support slots, and suffered that middle of the bill fate of being squeezed between a slack early outfit and the need to give the main band a decent run before the curfew. This gave them room to breath and the confidence that comes from knowing people have paid just to see you. They stretched out and enjoyed that space, playing a wider range of songs than I'd seen them play before: by now firm favourites from Cold Water Songs, older songs from the King Will Build a Disco and new ones from the forthcoming and excellent Jesus Songs.
Before that we had support band Garlic. Rubbish name, decent band. I'd got one or two of their records but hadn't seen them live before. Americana, underpinned by tremendous pedal steel guitar playing from a man who didn't look like he was with the rest of the band. I shall seek out their records.
Of course we were all waiting for the hip, chart-topping sounds of the Broken Family Band. The singer appeared to have brought his dad with him, which was nice. Sitting at the side of the stage, I could see things I hadn't noticed before. Previously I'd seen them head on the Water Rats, and you notice the charismatic singer and his burly henchman on acoustic guitar. There's more to them than that. The drummer and bassist are great too. They keep it all going.
You can't help but smile at the words, you can't help but tap you feet to the tunes and you can't help but watch the singer, who has buckets full of stage presence. You emerge from a Broken Family Band gig happy, and ready to see them again. Particularly good on this night were two of my favourites, the lovely Queen of the Sea and the scary Twelve Eyes of Evil. Because they were headlining they could save their two best known songs for last, so we finished with a rip-roaring Don't Leave That Woman Unattended and I Don't Have The Time To Mess Around. As an ending, it could not be bettered.
I love the 100 Club as well. It's the perfect venue, and shows most indie shitholes up for the toilets they are. It's slap bang in central London, the staff are civilised, you can sit down, you can get a drink without being ignored for ten minutes first and when you get that drink you can get a proper pint of beer in a glass instead of a can of something dubious and expensive with something plastic to drink it in. I recall the days when I pretty much lived in the Duchess of York in Leeds and if the bands were rubbish at least you could drink the beer. The 100 Club's true act of genius is to have the stage down the long side of the room rather than at the end. In so many indie venues the stage is at the end of the room and you all stand together in a sort of corridor trying to get a glimpse of the band. Here, the people who want to get down the front can while miserable gets like me can sit round the side, listen to the music and watch the band. Can't understand why everywhere isn't like this, and it shows what low standards we usually accept. Shame they normally get ropy bands on, mind.
For once, though, it had all come together. It was the perfect band for the perfect venue. We left exhilarated. And to nurture that obsession, I've already bought tickets to see the Broken Family Band again in March.
12 February 2004
The White Stripes
Review - The White Stripes, Alexandra Palace, Wednesday 21 January
Welcome to the world of showbiz.
To be fair, this could have been terrible. In some ways, we expected it to be. It's possible The White Stripes have got big past the point where they still make sense. Really a band like this should be playing every pub venue up and down the land. They should be a revered cult, the kind of band you follow passionately, a badge band the love of which proves you're in the company of someone as nuts about music as you. They shouldn't be on the front page of newspapers, number one in the album charts for weeks on end or instantly selling out multi-thousand venues. That stretches an admittedly thin proposition past a dangerous point. It's tempting to think they've passed their best. Elephant was not the masterpiece the hype promised. Inside that beast there was a really good 10 track LP straining to get out, but if you ask me – not that you did – they’ve never bettered De Stijl.
Yet, despite that, this was an enjoyable night. However big they get, I guess they’ll always be worth seeing. Despite the size of the gig, and the way you felt you were being processed as you waited in one of those queues that wraps around itself while being shouted at about all the things you’re not allowed to do, and despite the office party atmosphere that for once saw that I wasn’t the sole person in a shirt and tie, this was as intimate as any experience you share with several thousand people can be. Huge though the venue was, the White Stripes made an admirable lack of concessions in their act. There was no big backdrop, no big video screens. It was still just the two of them, in their funny clothes, on stage, Meg bashing the drums, Jack treading on a thousand pedals to extract an extraordinary range of sounds from his guitar, at times forgetting there's anyone else there.
There were many highlights. Hotel Yorba still does it for me every time. I’m a grinning, swaying sentimentalist all over again. To follow that with Seven Nation Army, a single so simple it’s genius, almost feels like they’re spoiling us. The other great songs from Elephant, Black Math and The Hardest Button To Button, were out there too, rubbing shoulders with cast iron, ipodded classics like I Think I Smell A Rat and the singalong reclamation of Boll Weevil. Alright, with The White Stripes you’ll always get your duff moments. In The Cold, Cold Night is sweet and gets a cheer, but of course Meg can’t sing, and does anyone need to hear I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself ever again? (But then as a country neophyte I love Jolene, so there they made me happy.) And there is the showbizzy stuff, the ‘we love you, you’re a great audience’ cobblers, and Jack’s ill-advised digressions into Dick Van Dyke territory (Shine on Harvest Moon, for pity’s sake).
But forgive them these excesses. They’re part of what they are. What we have is a good band, perhaps a great band, who have recorded lots of wonderful songs and a few duds. They’re selling records, they’re on your radio, but still they’re just doing what they’ve always done. I’m glad they’re out there and going strong, turning up in unlikely places like Alexandra Palace.
Nice venue, too. Although there were thousands it never felt crowded, and there was ample space at the back to get a drink or something to eat or just avoid the dire support band. I felt embarrassed that I’d never been up to Alexandra Palace. It felt like we were above all of London, and I’d love to have seen it when it was light. I left resolving to go back for a walk and a couple of pints one Sunday. I’d still go and see The White Stripes again too, given the chance. They haven’t blown it yet.
Welcome to the world of showbiz.
To be fair, this could have been terrible. In some ways, we expected it to be. It's possible The White Stripes have got big past the point where they still make sense. Really a band like this should be playing every pub venue up and down the land. They should be a revered cult, the kind of band you follow passionately, a badge band the love of which proves you're in the company of someone as nuts about music as you. They shouldn't be on the front page of newspapers, number one in the album charts for weeks on end or instantly selling out multi-thousand venues. That stretches an admittedly thin proposition past a dangerous point. It's tempting to think they've passed their best. Elephant was not the masterpiece the hype promised. Inside that beast there was a really good 10 track LP straining to get out, but if you ask me – not that you did – they’ve never bettered De Stijl.
Yet, despite that, this was an enjoyable night. However big they get, I guess they’ll always be worth seeing. Despite the size of the gig, and the way you felt you were being processed as you waited in one of those queues that wraps around itself while being shouted at about all the things you’re not allowed to do, and despite the office party atmosphere that for once saw that I wasn’t the sole person in a shirt and tie, this was as intimate as any experience you share with several thousand people can be. Huge though the venue was, the White Stripes made an admirable lack of concessions in their act. There was no big backdrop, no big video screens. It was still just the two of them, in their funny clothes, on stage, Meg bashing the drums, Jack treading on a thousand pedals to extract an extraordinary range of sounds from his guitar, at times forgetting there's anyone else there.
There were many highlights. Hotel Yorba still does it for me every time. I’m a grinning, swaying sentimentalist all over again. To follow that with Seven Nation Army, a single so simple it’s genius, almost feels like they’re spoiling us. The other great songs from Elephant, Black Math and The Hardest Button To Button, were out there too, rubbing shoulders with cast iron, ipodded classics like I Think I Smell A Rat and the singalong reclamation of Boll Weevil. Alright, with The White Stripes you’ll always get your duff moments. In The Cold, Cold Night is sweet and gets a cheer, but of course Meg can’t sing, and does anyone need to hear I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself ever again? (But then as a country neophyte I love Jolene, so there they made me happy.) And there is the showbizzy stuff, the ‘we love you, you’re a great audience’ cobblers, and Jack’s ill-advised digressions into Dick Van Dyke territory (Shine on Harvest Moon, for pity’s sake).
But forgive them these excesses. They’re part of what they are. What we have is a good band, perhaps a great band, who have recorded lots of wonderful songs and a few duds. They’re selling records, they’re on your radio, but still they’re just doing what they’ve always done. I’m glad they’re out there and going strong, turning up in unlikely places like Alexandra Palace.
Nice venue, too. Although there were thousands it never felt crowded, and there was ample space at the back to get a drink or something to eat or just avoid the dire support band. I felt embarrassed that I’d never been up to Alexandra Palace. It felt like we were above all of London, and I’d love to have seen it when it was light. I left resolving to go back for a walk and a couple of pints one Sunday. I’d still go and see The White Stripes again too, given the chance. They haven’t blown it yet.
11 February 2004
The Projects
Track and Field Winter Sprinter Night Three – Kicker, James William Hindle, The Loves and The Projects, King’s Cross Water Rats, Friday 9 January
We’d miss it when it was gone. Here was the last night, day three and final of the Track and Field Winter Sprinter series. I'm aware that for students and young people, going out three nights running is hardly remarkable, but for people who have to get up the next morning, I find it pretty impressive. I've never been one for festivals - I will not camp, I don't like mud and I do not share my toilet with thousands of others - so you could say this was an ideal festival - four bands a night and your own bed and bog to go back to. I arrived drunker than the last two nights, having picked up my brother, down from Brum for the football - another very full day ahead on the Saturday - and made my way to the venue by the simple method of not walking past any pub en route.
The idea - the way I'd sold it to my brother - was to see Tompaulin, a band he likes but one of those I can't make my mind up about. Alas, they'd had to cancel due to a bereavement - one of those things that can't be helped, and hats off to Track and Field for e-mailing everyone and giving us all a couple of quid back on the door.
Ah, there were the familiar faces we had come to know over the last few nights. There was intense looking man with beard. There was the person of indeterminate sex reading a book about real murders. And there were the cliquey groups who'd come along purely so they could gather together and maintain a constant conversation.
As my brother grabbed armfuls of 7” singles I tried to work out who the band was. Wasn’t impressed at their tuneless thrashings around, so I was surprised when it turned out to be Kicker. I’d seen them before and thought them good, in a sub-Stereolab / Broadcast / Saloon kind of way. Sure they’d had a women singer. Turned out they did and she wasn’t there, so they were gamely pressing ahead with one of the blokes from the band filling in. Marks for carrying on regardless, but it wasn’t quite the same.
Returning from Wednesday night to fill the gap was the man with too many names, James William Hindle, or is it William James, whose quiet, dare-we-call-this-folk songs struggled against the nosier Friday night crowd. Again, opinion was divided, but I came down on his side of the fence.
I knew I’d enjoy The Loves. They live in the 1960s and make ramshackle two minute tunes with bubblegum choruses. Most of them contain the word ‘love’. I’d seen them before and in my memory (I might have remembered this wrong) they were all wearing uniforms, whereas this night they were disappointingly drably dressed. Apart from that, my heart was genuinely warmed. I don’t want to live in a world where these kind of pointless, never-going-to-make-it bands don’t exist.
With The Projects stepping up to fill the Tompaulin-sized hole it meant that for the third night running I hadn’t heard of the headliners. I was now quite drunk and very hungry, so ready for any excuse to leave and sink into the usual seat at the legendary King’s Cross Tandoori, but I had to stick around and delay my date with a dansak because, hey, the Projects were any good. They came, I suppose, out of that same Stereolab / etc. (see above) school but they did it with style, with rhythm and even with tunes. The woman singer was excellent, the drums and keyboards insistent, and you have to find a word to describe the guitars that isn’t angular. They managed to do what the last bands hadn’t done on the nights before and made me stay to the end. Memo to self: track down any Projects records.
Right, curry time.
We’d miss it when it was gone. Here was the last night, day three and final of the Track and Field Winter Sprinter series. I'm aware that for students and young people, going out three nights running is hardly remarkable, but for people who have to get up the next morning, I find it pretty impressive. I've never been one for festivals - I will not camp, I don't like mud and I do not share my toilet with thousands of others - so you could say this was an ideal festival - four bands a night and your own bed and bog to go back to. I arrived drunker than the last two nights, having picked up my brother, down from Brum for the football - another very full day ahead on the Saturday - and made my way to the venue by the simple method of not walking past any pub en route.
The idea - the way I'd sold it to my brother - was to see Tompaulin, a band he likes but one of those I can't make my mind up about. Alas, they'd had to cancel due to a bereavement - one of those things that can't be helped, and hats off to Track and Field for e-mailing everyone and giving us all a couple of quid back on the door.
Ah, there were the familiar faces we had come to know over the last few nights. There was intense looking man with beard. There was the person of indeterminate sex reading a book about real murders. And there were the cliquey groups who'd come along purely so they could gather together and maintain a constant conversation.
As my brother grabbed armfuls of 7” singles I tried to work out who the band was. Wasn’t impressed at their tuneless thrashings around, so I was surprised when it turned out to be Kicker. I’d seen them before and thought them good, in a sub-Stereolab / Broadcast / Saloon kind of way. Sure they’d had a women singer. Turned out they did and she wasn’t there, so they were gamely pressing ahead with one of the blokes from the band filling in. Marks for carrying on regardless, but it wasn’t quite the same.
Returning from Wednesday night to fill the gap was the man with too many names, James William Hindle, or is it William James, whose quiet, dare-we-call-this-folk songs struggled against the nosier Friday night crowd. Again, opinion was divided, but I came down on his side of the fence.
I knew I’d enjoy The Loves. They live in the 1960s and make ramshackle two minute tunes with bubblegum choruses. Most of them contain the word ‘love’. I’d seen them before and in my memory (I might have remembered this wrong) they were all wearing uniforms, whereas this night they were disappointingly drably dressed. Apart from that, my heart was genuinely warmed. I don’t want to live in a world where these kind of pointless, never-going-to-make-it bands don’t exist.
With The Projects stepping up to fill the Tompaulin-sized hole it meant that for the third night running I hadn’t heard of the headliners. I was now quite drunk and very hungry, so ready for any excuse to leave and sink into the usual seat at the legendary King’s Cross Tandoori, but I had to stick around and delay my date with a dansak because, hey, the Projects were any good. They came, I suppose, out of that same Stereolab / etc. (see above) school but they did it with style, with rhythm and even with tunes. The woman singer was excellent, the drums and keyboards insistent, and you have to find a word to describe the guitars that isn’t angular. They managed to do what the last bands hadn’t done on the nights before and made me stay to the end. Memo to self: track down any Projects records.
Right, curry time.
10 February 2004
The Broken Family Band
Track and Field Winter Sprinter Night Two – The Broken Family Band, Finishing School, Homescience and the Ladybug Transistor, King’s Cross Water Rats, Thursday 8 January
So here we were again. Night two. More or less the same pubs in the same scuzzy part of London. Again, that need to get to the venue earlier than you’d like because the band you really want to see isn’t the main one. This makes me think I like unpopular music, but that isn’t by choice. I never set out to like music that is wilfully obscure, in the same way that I never decided to support a football team which will never win things – but that’s the way it’s apparently come to be. Anyway, bands and venues don’t keep time like people who have to work for a living do, so we got there before anything much was happening. Having spent over 80 quid on music of varying quality the day before, I resolved at all times to keep my gaze averted from the table with the records on it.
First two bands were Finishing School, who I liked, and Homescience, who I didn’t. Homescience were a wimpy bloke band while Finishing School where one of those nice, melodic girl bands who are pleasant enough to listen to without necessarily being the sort of thing you’ll get excited about. One of the women out of this was also in the Essex Green the night before. How many bands does any one person need to be in?
Both went on a bit long, as I was there, waiting with less than perfect patience, to see the Broken Family Band, with whom I am in danger of developing an obsession. I always say that The Fall are my favourite all time band, and then I allow myself at least one current new favourite band. At the moment, it’s the Broken Family Band. Yet nothing about them makes sense. They’re a country band. From Cambridge. Cambridge, England. It took me a bit of persistence to like them. First response was that I don’t like country music. But the songs got to me. I bought their LP Cold Water Songs last year. First time I played it I thought I might have got this wrong. The first track made no concessions to those wary of country. They even had American accents. But somehow I grew to love it. It stayed in my head, and I played that record again and again and again. Now I’m forced to admit something I resisted: I really do like country music. Perhaps this is a sign of getting older. Certainly no one under thirty should admit to liking country. Now, not only have I hoovered up every Broken Family Band record I can find, but I’ve also got a fistful of Johnny Cash CDs and the recent and wonderful Rough Trade Shops Country compilation. This looks like the start of an enthralling journey. And isn’t that one of the wonderful things about music? Who’d have thought a teenage Smiths obsessive would end up here?
I saw the BFB alongside Herman Dune last year and they were wonderful. The records don’t quite capture how good they are live. The singer’s a little chap but he brims with charisma and menace and commands the stage. It helps that he has an extraordinary voice that covers high and low, quiet and loud, sad and funny and all points in between – sometimes in the same song. Aiding and abetting is a moustachioed hulk on bass and other things. They might have started as a joke, but they’re far too good to be treated as one now. Of course the set was frustratingly short – squeezed as they were in that insidious spot between the main band and the earlier bands who’d overstayed – but very sweet. I Don’t Have the Time to Mess Around and Don’t Leave That Women Unattended were particular thrills, but then they always will be. Encouragingly, the audience loved it, and before you knew it, they were gone. I needed at least an hour more.
For the second night running the best band had been on in the wrong place. Again, we might as well stick around and hear the supposed headliners, who couldn’t hope to match this. Don’t know anything about the Ladybug Transistor, apart from that this is no name for a band. What allusion am I missing? They were adequate. But surely that was the same guitarist from the Essex Green leaving his Byrdsian fingerprints all over the place? How incestuous is this? Anyway, I thought the singers were interesting and it was perfectly alright, but it couldn’t help but feel anticlimactic.
Bed was calling, and I answered.
So here we were again. Night two. More or less the same pubs in the same scuzzy part of London. Again, that need to get to the venue earlier than you’d like because the band you really want to see isn’t the main one. This makes me think I like unpopular music, but that isn’t by choice. I never set out to like music that is wilfully obscure, in the same way that I never decided to support a football team which will never win things – but that’s the way it’s apparently come to be. Anyway, bands and venues don’t keep time like people who have to work for a living do, so we got there before anything much was happening. Having spent over 80 quid on music of varying quality the day before, I resolved at all times to keep my gaze averted from the table with the records on it.
First two bands were Finishing School, who I liked, and Homescience, who I didn’t. Homescience were a wimpy bloke band while Finishing School where one of those nice, melodic girl bands who are pleasant enough to listen to without necessarily being the sort of thing you’ll get excited about. One of the women out of this was also in the Essex Green the night before. How many bands does any one person need to be in?
Both went on a bit long, as I was there, waiting with less than perfect patience, to see the Broken Family Band, with whom I am in danger of developing an obsession. I always say that The Fall are my favourite all time band, and then I allow myself at least one current new favourite band. At the moment, it’s the Broken Family Band. Yet nothing about them makes sense. They’re a country band. From Cambridge. Cambridge, England. It took me a bit of persistence to like them. First response was that I don’t like country music. But the songs got to me. I bought their LP Cold Water Songs last year. First time I played it I thought I might have got this wrong. The first track made no concessions to those wary of country. They even had American accents. But somehow I grew to love it. It stayed in my head, and I played that record again and again and again. Now I’m forced to admit something I resisted: I really do like country music. Perhaps this is a sign of getting older. Certainly no one under thirty should admit to liking country. Now, not only have I hoovered up every Broken Family Band record I can find, but I’ve also got a fistful of Johnny Cash CDs and the recent and wonderful Rough Trade Shops Country compilation. This looks like the start of an enthralling journey. And isn’t that one of the wonderful things about music? Who’d have thought a teenage Smiths obsessive would end up here?
I saw the BFB alongside Herman Dune last year and they were wonderful. The records don’t quite capture how good they are live. The singer’s a little chap but he brims with charisma and menace and commands the stage. It helps that he has an extraordinary voice that covers high and low, quiet and loud, sad and funny and all points in between – sometimes in the same song. Aiding and abetting is a moustachioed hulk on bass and other things. They might have started as a joke, but they’re far too good to be treated as one now. Of course the set was frustratingly short – squeezed as they were in that insidious spot between the main band and the earlier bands who’d overstayed – but very sweet. I Don’t Have the Time to Mess Around and Don’t Leave That Women Unattended were particular thrills, but then they always will be. Encouragingly, the audience loved it, and before you knew it, they were gone. I needed at least an hour more.
For the second night running the best band had been on in the wrong place. Again, we might as well stick around and hear the supposed headliners, who couldn’t hope to match this. Don’t know anything about the Ladybug Transistor, apart from that this is no name for a band. What allusion am I missing? They were adequate. But surely that was the same guitarist from the Essex Green leaving his Byrdsian fingerprints all over the place? How incestuous is this? Anyway, I thought the singers were interesting and it was perfectly alright, but it couldn’t help but feel anticlimactic.
Bed was calling, and I answered.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)