Review: Surfer Blood w/No Joy (Newcastle O2 Academy 2, 06/03/11)

There's a veritable genre war taking place across Newcastle's wind-and-rain battered city centre this evening; at one end of town, just off the tracksuit-and-trampcoat laden Northumberland Street, Scottish post-hardcore noiseniks Flood of Red are trying desperately to stomp a mudhole in the refurbished Trillian's rock bar and prove to all and sundry that their particular brand of scuzzy, punky emo rock is the most exciting thing you could hope to immerse yourself in on a Sunday night. Meanwhile, a few hundred metres away, past the garish fracas of the world-renowned Bigg Market and through the meandering, well-hidden Victorian side streets, grungy lo-fi Floridians Surfer Blood have organised the counter battle, flying the flag for sun-kissed indie, attempting to convince 300 or so scene kids in Sonic Youth T-shirts to throw their floppy fringes to the wind and just, you know, dance.

Problem is, on this most dreary of ends to the week, Newcastle struggles to do much of anything at all, and Surfer Blood have a pretty gosh darn hard time trying to convince anyone to move a muscle. Montreal and Los Angeles-based shoegaze outfit No Joy bear the brunt of the indifference, with applause decidedly muted, despite the female singers' dangerously skimpy wardrobe choices and valiant attempts to break My Bloody Valentine's volume record. And when the main act grace us with their presence, they do so to as little fanfare as possible, with only the occasional impromptu whoop or hand-clap signaling that anything more than a soundcheck is taking place. Granted, the guys don't exactly make much of a fuss over their onstage debut, slouching out sans intro music and barely saying anything at all, but one would expect a crowd of supposed fans to at least work themselves into some semblance of excitement at the arrival of their hosts.

Of course, it's questionable whether many of the faces intensely studying Surfer Blood tonight have even bothered listening to their output. Despite a relatively brief, straightforward set consisting almost entirely of tracks from the superb 2010 debut 'Astro Coast', audience participation is minimal and most mouths are wired shut, even during the funky-as-fuck Summer-anthem-that-never-was 'Take It Easy' (JP does his usual party trick and heads into the 'pit', wielding his microphone like a weapon) and, even more unforgivably, during 'Swim', the band's biggest, most well-hyped, single and most ludicrously fun slice of scuzz pop in a pretty top notch arsenal. A few fairly quiet devotees in the front row mumble the words sheepishly to themselves, conscious of the fact that no one else seems bothered, but for the most part, there is very little activity. Somewhat unfortunately, it's patently obvious to the Floridians themselves and their set loses a little of its lustre as a result, as if the boys gave up bothering after a few tracks, all too aware that a reaction was unlikely to be forthcoming.

That's not to say, however, that SB don't put in a mighty commendable performance; this is as note-perfect a representation of their hazy East coast sound as you're likely to get, with 'Fast Jabroni ' and a punchy 'Floating Vibes' sounding positively monumental. The problem, however, is that it lacks that little something more, the extra ingredient to make the show seem more like an event than another night on the job. The crowd has a lot to answer for, sure, but there is a noticeable gap stage right too, as the maracas-wielding keyboard/percussionist/all-round nutcase appears to have disappeared into the void. Without him, Surfer Blood seem to be a rather more professional outfit, losing some of the lunatic charm they exuded during their recent Interpol support slots.

Blame the Sunday night; blame the frustratingly benign folk of Newcastle; blame the band dynamic; blame whatever; tonight, Surfer Blood aren't anywhere near as glorious as they can be, and despite putting in a solid performance, they lack the spark so desperately needed to set our hearts ablaze. As a stand for all that is good, pure and reckless about contemporary lo-fi indie, it can only be judged partially successful, and as competitors in this evening's Battle of the Genres, Surfer Blood come out on the receiving end of a punk-shaped suckerpunch. Sorry guys, but the Scots win again. Probably.

Review: Interpol/Surfer Blood, Liverpool University 04/12/10

Ask your average indie aficionado to describe Interpol and they'll probably offer you one word: miserablists. The New York four piece have carved themselves a sizeable space in the bottomless musical pit of doom and despair occupied by such carefree spirits as Nirvana's Kurt Cobain and, dare we say it, Joy Division's Ian Curits, and that's largely thanks to the marriage of Daniel Kessler's lilting, cold guitar tricks with Paul Banks's deep vocals, which creates a distinctive sound so dark, yet vast, that it threatens to swallow you whole. Certainly, this isn't the sort of stuff you can play at parties and when faced with the prospect of a full ninety minutes entrenched in such melancholy, your Saturday night suddenly becomes a lot bleaker.

But then, that's somewhat unfair to Interpol. For starters, they've brought Floridian indie-alt rapscallions Surfer Blood along for the ride and their sumptuous blend of scuzzy, distorted guitars with funky bass lines and Beach Boys-esque melodies immediately brings a smile to the face. These guys have tunes by the dozen, including candidate for Single of the Year 'Swim', and enough witty repartaie to keep the masses interested. Lead singer John Paul Pitts is on fine, exuberant form, claiming that a trip to Liverpool has prevented the band from falling apart, and that the deliciously catchy 'Take It Easy' is about how attractive he is. Before long, he's crowdsurfing his way to the back of the venue, and then he's in the crowd, offering up the mic, shimmying with da laydeez, trying to get himself laid (yes, he openly admits this).

Clearly, this is markedly different from anything we could expect from our headline act - you won't catch Paul dancing around the stage with maracas, that's for sure - but then, that just adds to the diversity of the experience. And anyhow, Interpol's bleak reputation isn't entirely justified: while between-song banter is sparse, confined mainly to polite "thank you"s, there are gigantic smiles on faces throughout, a telling acknowledgement of the crowd's somewhat insatiable lust for more. Liverpool's indie contingent are at their loudest and most lively this evening, screaming every word, battering into one another with reckless abandon. It probably helps that this is a 'Turn on the Bright Lights'-heavy set, featuring no less than six tracks from one of the decade's greatest albums.

The singles are here - an early 'Obstacle 1' gets things going, 'PDA' induces delirium and an astoundingly epic 'NYC' makes grown men cry - but it's the others that provide the biggest highlights. 'Say Hello to the Angels' sounds even wilder than on record, threatening to fall apart at the seams at the breakneck pace at which Kessler delivers those unforgiving guitar chops. 'Hands Away', meanwhile, gives Banks a chance to relax his voice a little and demonstrate the full spectrum of his vocal range, delivering a beautifully cracked rendition. And then, folks, we have 'The New', six minutes of angular indie heaven, unaired for years but finally taken off the shelf, dusted down and given the good ol' fashioned seeing to that it deserves.

There are plenty other moments to savour, of course. The new material translates well, with current single 'Barricade' and the cascading riffs in 'Memory Serves' sticking firmly in the mind, while classic singles 'Slow Hands' and 'Evil' are met with the kind of devotional hysteria usually reserved round these parts for a sighting in McCartney's Bar. It's left to an extended 'Not Even Jail' to close proceedings, and it's a brilliant decision. The track is probably Interpol's finest hour and its dark, moribund proto-gothrock stylings are given extra gravitas tonight by essentially turning everything up to eleven.

It would be a mistake to write Interpol off as a bunch of gloom-wallowers, mired in the sound of unrelenting misery. They've carved their own niche, sure, and yes, it's hardly Alphabeat territory, but this stuff rocks like a bastard and if you get it, like the 2,000 here tonight, you'll leave safe in the knowledge that you've just witnessed something spectacular.