Bit of a miserable night for a Funeral Party. As the gale force winds batter the fortified Victorian ramparts of the Ouseburn's finest drinking hole and the heavens promptly take a gigantic whiz all over the good folk of Newcastle, a few hundred dour-faced punters huddle together for protection, waiting for the Zeitgeist's flavour of the week - Zane Lowe narrates their ads, they *must* be hotly tipped - to carry us away on a wave of distorted guitars, errant cowbells and visceral rock 'n' roll thrills... but before we get round to the business of throwing shapes, there's Barcode to contend with. Perennially besotted with Gang of Four, just like EVERY OTHER BAND TO HAVE COME OUT OF SUNDERLAND EVER, these guys have hooks aplenty, sure, but they're just not sure how to use them. Their brief six song set reads like a Who's Who of contemporary indie-rock, taking in Two Door Cinema Club, Bloc Party, The Hives, Biffy Clyro's 'Folding Stars' and even, at one low point, Jet. The songs aren't bad per se, but the band lack focus and would benefit from concentrating on a sound of their own. And someone needs to get that bassist to shed a few garments for the next show. Talk about untapped sex appeal.
Fortunately, second support Flashguns have no such problems. Youthful of countenance and perfect of cheekbone, the Southern noise merchants have both the boys and girls coming over all giddy for the majority of their deliciously ethereal set. These boys are gifted with the most beautiful voices this side of a Wild Beasts record and they make the most of it, gently caressing each slice of fuzzy Americana with otherworldly vocal duets, the most notable of which is 'Passion of a Different Kind', which leaves the sold out crowd dumbstruck. It's a truly mesmerising performance, threatening to upstage the main attraction.
And to Flashguns's credit, they very nearly do. For a short while, the hype machine is almost too much for Funeral Party; the opening run of soundalike album tracks lacks pizzazz, despite a concerted effort to liven up proceedings by inflating a bunch of balloons in honour of the bassist's birthday. While this brings the arms-folded brigade to life, sending slogans like 'SORRY YOU'RE LEAVING' soaring around the venue and bouncing off people's heads, it doesn't disguise the lack of a detectable hook in many of these songs; if anything, it further exposes their weaknesses and the boys from the Party seem to know it, appearing initially tempered rather than animated, shying away from engagement with the masses.
Fortunately, it doesn't last long. As soon as the monumental 'Just Because' rears its filthy head, band and crowd come alive and lead singer Chad Elliott lets the music swallow him up, leaping off the drumkit, wrapping the microphone lead around himself, his band and quite probably a few audience members, goading us into action. Before long, he's screaming every other word, loading 'Youth & Poverty' with purest, guttural rage, and James Torres responds in kind, thrashing seven shades of shit out of his manhandled guitar. This is the untempered, primal noise that the good people of Los Angeles spunked all over in the early months of 2010. This is the justification for the front covers, the billboards and the action figures (well, maybe some day).
Inevitably, the loudest screams and the most energetic jumps are reserved for the cyclone of indie-punk noise that is 'New York Moves To The Sound of L.A.', which sounds especially huge this evening, all unfathomable guitar chops and acrylic percussion. It's a perfectly maniacal end to the Party, descending into a haze of sweat and distortion... and then it's one-upped by the presentation of the bassist's birthday cake, which he promptly showers the crowd with, covering us all in chocolaty goodness. It's an appropriately messy, impromptu climax (hur hur) and one that adds an additional touch of character to an already vibrant performance. A bit of a miserable night, sure, but one hell of a Party.
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