From the casual disinterest of a sparsely populated Bridge Hotel to this evening’s rapturously attentive, and impressively cramped, Northumbria University, Jarrow/Heaton/Sunderland-born indie upstarts Little Comets have come a long way in the last twelve months. Aided admirably by a series of deliciously spiky indie-pop singles, one impressively instant debut LP and a penchant for whippin’ out the old acoustic guitars on the Metro Airport line, the quirky, bejumpered four-piece have now reached that oh-so-coveted of turning points: the cusp of mainstream crossover. There’s an undeniable buzz around these guys; the kind of feverish excitement that enveloped Maximo Park just before ‘Apply Some Pressure’, that almost swallowed up The Futureheads before they’d had a chance to put out a record and that currently follows POP SEX stalwarts Frankie & The Heartstrings wherever they go. Having achieved a sort of ‘oddball’ local hero status, Robert, Michael, Mark and Matthew are on the fast track to indie superstardom and this is their celebratory homecoming.
It would be churlish to suggest that the ensuing triumph was inevitable, but even the most hard-nosed of cynics would have to concede that the odds were firmly in the Comets’ favour. Northumbria’s revamped, scaled-down Student’s Union bristles with excitement tonight as 500 beer-swilling alt kids (half of whom are too young to know what a double vodka and coke even is) lift their arms aloft, faces beaming with pride, and bellow the devilishly obtuse words to effortlessly catchy opener ‘One Night In October’ right back at their fellow Geordies. In typically eccentric fashion, the band eschew the track’s standard instrumentation and choose to treat Newcastle to a stripped-down acoustic reimagining, with all four members attempting to play the same strung-up guitar – tied to clotheslines for that added touch of bizarre – in unison. It’s a surreal sight, and it’s questionable whether it actually works, but the end result is categorically endearing. In celebration of the fact that this is their largest headline show to date, the Comets clearly felt obliged to do something special, to ‘mix it up a little’ (for want of better terminology), and hell, they do the honorable thing and whizz through the beefed-up version of the track towards the end of the set anyhow. Yes, you read that right folks, tonight, Little Comets play the same song twice and it’s a testament to the quality of their performance that the cheeky rascals get away with it.
Not that their set requires any padding, of course. Within the space of 15 songs - pretty much the entirety of their recent debut - Little Comets sparkle, shine and make highly inventive use of saucepans (one dangles from the ceiling alongside a tambourine for added percussion), all the while maintaining their unenviable knack for getting bodies moving. Their one new track is symptomatic of this, eliciting an enthusiastic jump-along after a meagre thirty seconds. It's quite probably their sexiest effort to date, driving its kitchen sink lyricism along on the crest of a groove-shaped wave that would put Jessie J to shame. Maybe. So lascivious is this beast that it almost pips the wonderfully playful 'Joanna', and that has the advantage of a brilliant slice of semantic ambiguity that sees the 500-strong faithful (almost) asking, 'do you wanna take me home?' It's precisely this kind of loveable quirkiness that separates Little Comets from their peers: who else could make a song about 'Adultery' sound so damn appealing, or get away with spelling out their country's name to form a chorus? ('Isles', you are a bloody cheeky blighter, but you sound glorious - and especially fast this evening - so we'll forgive you). No one, that's who. By gig's end, and the irresistible sporadic convulsiveness of the dumb-as-fuck 'Dancing Song', the Comets have the masses body-popping in their Converse, having successfully charmed each and every one.
A resounding success, then? Well, obviously. With their largest crowd to date and a level of local respect and adulation the size of Paul Smith's ego, Robert, Michael, Mark and Matthew could probably have played an hour of Barry Manilow covers this evening and still have left the masses hungry for more. They don't, of course; they deliver a balls-to-the-floor indie rock show of the highest order and prove themselves worthy of the Geordies' devotion. Today's Little Comets, tomorrow's massive stars.
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