This is the original, unedited version of the review. The published version, which is somewhat shorter, can be found at Livethescene.
There are members of the local constabulary patrolling the halls of Newcastle's 02 Academy this evening, as homegrown heroes Maximo Park begin the first night of their two-date residency. However, rather than being hired to keep an eye on a few thousand over-exuberant Geordies, whose uncontrollable desire to get close to their idols threatens to trample hundreds of innocent bystanders under foot, the boys in blue are here in an attempt to quell a rising spate of phone and wallet thievery; at recent gigs by acts as disparate as NOFX and The Enemy, the pickpockets have been on the loose, scrounging what they can while the average music lover is distracted by the sight of his or her favourite band. Their presence is a nice, polite gesture, one that makes you think that yeah, maybe the venue does have our best interests at heart; until you walk through the double doors and are accosted by their 'promotional staff' that is, who, despite being amicable enough to have a mindless chat about Poison the Well with, are still there purely to sell you a phone network. A phone network that has a monopoly on the tickets they sell for their recently acquired venues, that offers its users the chance to buy them a day or so before they are released to the general public. It's just the sort of plastic, repugnant corporate claptrap that music can do without and no amount of free Monster-Munch-on-a-stick appetisers (yes, we're not kidding) from smiley-faced 'waitresses', if you can call them that, can disguise the fact.
So already, this false politeness leaves a bitter taste in the mouth, and that's before Stricken Kid and the Noisettes show up with the remit to be as inoffensive as possible. The London four piece carefully wheel out their Korg-led twee pop, stopping only to offer the most delicate of "thank you"s to a gracious, but markedly unmoved, crowd. Shingai Shoniwa's band of merry indie funksters continue the trend, despite having a drummer who looks like he should be in a 70s heavy metal act, bashing away at his kit with the kind of force generally reserved for Iron Maiden LPs. There's a sort of sultry sense of relaxation to their newly honed Gossip-lite sound, but it fails to ignite the very palpable spark that's buzzing around the clearly psyched-up crowd. Shoniwa's attempts to inject a little sleaze into the performance don't really help matters; while she drapes herself over the drumkit in her too-short yellow dress and gyrates suggestively against her guitarist, Newcastle just shrugs its shoulders, as if to say, "yeah, been there, done that, when's the guy in the trilby coming on?" Everyone stands stock still, even during recent single 'Go Baby Go', the one a few people might've actually heard. Oh sure, they bring their hands together, but its more out of obedience than any sort of appreciation. It certainly doesn't help that the Noisettes lack the tunes to really kick-start the party and, more importantly, that they make occasional use of a backing track instead of allowing Shoniwa to sing. Would it really kill her to perform her songs as they are recorded? By the end of their lacklustre twenty-five minutes, even the band look bored, resigned to the fact that they're never going to stimulate this most befuddled and unimpressed of audiences.
Thankfully, the main event shows up thirty minutes later and promptly puts an end to all of this indifference. There's nothing polite about Maximo Park's performance, that's for sure, and nor is there in Newcastle's very vocal adoration. As the various members of the band walk out onstage, the roars of appreciation threaten to blow the roof off and then, when Paul Smith's gangly, besuited and betrilbyed frame finally scissor kicks into view, they very almost do. There is such an incredible amount of love for this band that, at times, it threatens to overwhelm them; their Cheshire cat grins stay permanently glued to their faces, as if in awe of such sincere warmth. However, instead of simply resting on their laurels and letting the love wash over them, they grab onto it as tight as they can and use it to invigorate, transforming a standard set that's heavy on the new album with a smattering of hits, into a blisteringly impassioned performance. It's like they're playing for their lives, such is the intensity; Paul Smith frequently seems possessed, 'Hulking up' to his hoards, yelling "come on!" at the top of his voice and wildly gesticulating at us all as he tells nineteen stories in lyrical form. His songs seem to consume him: he feels and means every word, and frequently screams them, fists clenched, into the distance, as if addressing some invisible subject. And why wouldn't he? These are snapshots of a life, one loaded with a wealth of experience that he delights in regaling us with. From the bittersweet yearning of 'I Want You To Stay' to the heartfelt reminisce of 'By The Monument', there is a sort of emotional catharsis in his performance, as if the act of singing the words actually helps to resolve the personal conflict that they speak of.
There's room for mindless, flamboyant fun in the mix too. Smith's expert showmanship shines through at every turn: he stalks the stage from left to right, climbing speaker stacks, jumping off drum risers and standing on stage lights, all the while throwing shapes, twisting, contorting, swinging his mic around and so on and on, further into the most delectable sort of cabaret. There's a distinctly camp element to his behaviour, the kind that makes you half expect him to start twirling the mic stand around while performing a sort of barbershop quartet dance across the length of the stage. He never does though; instead, he just shakes his arse one more time and gropes keyboardist Lukas Wooller, who is also just about as delightfully fidgety.
If he isn't doing his traditional right-hand karate chops, he's swinging his keyboard from left to right, falling all over it and jumping around the stage, pointing suggestively at the screaming masses. It makes for quite a spectacle, but fortunately, it never distracts from the power of the music. While there is much here from the recently released 'Quicken the Heart', and only about a sixth of the audience know the words, Maximo circumvent this problem by turning the guitars up to twenty and bolstering their sound. From current single 'The Kids Are Sick Again' to sporadic album opener 'Wraithlike', everything seems heavier and more intense and as a result, you just can't help but shuffle your feet. It's the earlier material that really gives the floor a good pounding, though. Opener 'Graffiti' stomps out of the gate like a demented rock behemoth, and before long it's morphed into the whirlwind histrionics of 'Our Velocity', sending bodies bouncing off one another in a sort of riotous delirium. Then there's 'Girls Who Play Guitars', 'Now I'm All Over The Shop', 'Going Missing', 'Books From Boxes'... classics all, and greeted with the kind of vocal hysteria usually reserved for stadium terraces.
By the time the encore comes around, Newcastle is giving its heroes a standing ovation. They barely even need to play closer 'Apply Some Pressure'; the audience screams every word so loud that they almost drown out the rhythm section. It's a superlative moment, demonstrating the depth of devotion that this city has for its most prolific of bands, and when Maximo remain on stage at song's end, mouthing heartfelt "thank you"s and basking in the glory of a job well and truly done, you know the feeling is mutual. The restrained politeness that characterised the start of the evening has given way to an uncontrollable frenzy, and that’s something that not even the long arm of the law can control. Absolutely and utterly class.
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