Oh, what a difference the Radio 1 playlist makes. It's surprising to
think it in this super-selective day and age, where new music is
available at the touch of a button and we can filter any tracks, artists
and genres we don't like out of our lives for good, but the airwaves
still hold significant sway over the success of our much-loved bands.
Get a track A-listed on a major radio station and suddenly, it's
everywhere; not only are the musos blasting it through their over-sized
headphones on the way to Rough Trade, but now 'the man in the street',
the one who 'likes a bit of everything', is whistling it on his way to
work and, even more importantly than that, the teenyboppers have taken
it to their hearts and plastered posters of the lead singer all over
their bedroom walls. Glasgow's Twin Atlantic have recently had the good
fortune to discover all of this (working in tandem with a support slot
on Blink 182's arena tour which will undoubtedly have helped matters),
and now, instead of playing in shoeboxes to 100 or so sweat-drenched
devotees, they're selling out Academy venues across the country and
receiving singalongs the likes of which would've made Liam Gallagher
jealous in Oasis's heyday.
It's a heart-warming experience to see a
band who have slugged their guts out over the last few years get
rewarded for their hard work with such a raucous reception as they
receive tonight. In a set that's 20 songs in length, which is, in
itself, highly commendable for a band with one full-length, one
mini-album and an EP, there's nary a moment's silence; the crowd bellows
back every last word of each of the 12 tracks from 'Free' and, during
the lesser-known 'Vivarium' songs, the majority continue to slam
face-first into one another, forming moshpits galore and occasionally
diving stagewards with reckless abandon.
Twin Atlantic seem
genuinely bemused by all of this activity; while their fanbase has been
steadily growing in Scotland for some time, this is the first English
show they've played to such a large, adoring crowd, and it shows. Sam
plays off the audience's seemingly endless energy throughout, slaying
his guitar from the onset (he breaks one set of strings during the first
song, a blistering 'Time for You to Stand Up') and flitting around the
stage constantly; one moment, he's on his knees, unleashing a filthy
riff on us, the next, he's atop the drumkit, throwing triumphant poses.
And of course, at show's end, following an almighty 'Make A Beast of
Myself' (complete with giant balloons! Who doesn't love giant
balloons?!), he's in the crowd, having completed a successful dive from
the stage, and is shaking all of our hands and lapping up the adoration.
All
of this may be an altogether different experience to previous Twin
Atlantic shows in Newcastle - Academy 2 last year and the phenomenally
manic, sweaty Digital show in 2010 - but it is no less spine-tingling.
'Lightspeed' still sounds gigantic, 'Yes, I Was Drunk' is effortlessly
epic, 'What Is Light? Where Is Laughter?' threatens to tear all of our
faces off and the mudhole being stomped in the Academy floor during 'The
Ghost of Eddie' causes several concerned looks to spread over the faces
of the poor, helpless security staff. Inevitably, though, it's 'Crash
Land' that provides the evening's most memorable moment, thanks to a
beautiful chorus of voices from the crowd which prompt Sam to keep
silent for over 50% of the song. It's testament to just how far they've
come in the last 18 months and frankly, it's fucking fantastic.
There
are plenty other moments we could mention - the tender reworking of
'You're Turning Into John Wayne', the monstrous 'Free', 'A Guidance
From Colour'! - but frankly, we're running out of space. Suffice to say,
Twin Atlantic were on fire tonight, playing off an energetic,
adrenalin-fueled crowd to provide one beast of a show. If this is what
Radio 1 playlisting can do for the band, then get the entire album on
there pronto. Just, let's leave Charlie Simpson at home next time, all
right guys? Sorted.
Showing posts with label Newcastle O2 Academy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Newcastle O2 Academy. Show all posts
Sunday, 4 November 2012
Saturday, 27 October 2012
Live review: Little Comets (w/General Fiasco, Natasha Haws), Newcastle O2 Academy, 20/10/12
It wasn't so long ago that Jarrow's finest songsmiths were barely
troubling the claustrophobic shoebox that is Newcastle Academy's second
room. A year or two on from those halcyon days and with a sophomore
album under their collective belts, Little Comets are now packing out
the former Bingo Hall itself, drawing in delirious youngsters (and by
young, golly do we mean young) by the truckload and whipping every last
one of 'em into a frenzy with their unique brand of spiky kitchen sink
indie. And okay, so the venue isn't actually sold out tonight but with
the noise this lot make, and the mudhole stomped into the floor by the
end, you'd certainly be forgiven for thinking so.
In an inspired move, support this evening comes in two equally delicious flavours: first, soaring acoustic melancholia courtesy of South Shields' Natasha Haws, whose all-too-brief five song set is a lesson in how to pull heartstrings (mark our words, this girl will go far); second, hook-laden pop rock from Northern Ireland's General Fiasco who mainly showcase their latest release 'Unfaithfully Yours' (a real step up; buy it now, kids) but offer a veritable treasure trove of killer riffs and irresistible choruses ('Don't You Ever' and 'We Are The Foolish' are the main highlights) that get the hands clapping and the feet... well, you get the gist.
There's no mistaking the stars of tonight's soiree, however, and as the obligatory clothesline is draped with the requisite percussion instruments and the lights begin to dim, the atmosphere is positively electric. The 75 minute Greatest Hits (and then some) that follows is just about the perfect recipe to satisfy the rabid hordes, careering from one gigantic indie pop gem to another, only occasionally interrupted by lesser-known material from current record 'Life Is Elsewhere'.
And if, at times, the new tracks sound a little stifled, hinting perhaps that they could use a little bedding in, they're few enough to be forgiven. Before long, we're recklessly slamming into one another again as another 'In Search of Elusive...' classic erupts or one of the more recent singles gets an airing. Indeed, one of the night's foremost highlights is the delirium that greets 'Worry'; the corresponding singalong is almost enough to stun the band into silence. And five minutes later, this actually happens as the crowd bellow back the RIFF to 'One Night in October' and then engage in the greatest hand-clap/woo-woo/bounce-bounce combination this side of a Green Day concert during the frankly bonkers 'Dancing Song'.
Little Comets are humbled by all of this; at show's end, they seem genuinely stunned at the warmth of the reception, telling us that their 'silly little songs' were written in bedrooms in Jarrow for their own amusement and that they never expected that they would connect with so many. It's a typically British, and perhaps North Eastern, trait, downplaying one's talent, but it only increases the poignancy of the situation, hammering home the fact that tonight is something particularly special. The local boys done good, guys... now let's give 'em a hundred more nights as memorable as this one.
In an inspired move, support this evening comes in two equally delicious flavours: first, soaring acoustic melancholia courtesy of South Shields' Natasha Haws, whose all-too-brief five song set is a lesson in how to pull heartstrings (mark our words, this girl will go far); second, hook-laden pop rock from Northern Ireland's General Fiasco who mainly showcase their latest release 'Unfaithfully Yours' (a real step up; buy it now, kids) but offer a veritable treasure trove of killer riffs and irresistible choruses ('Don't You Ever' and 'We Are The Foolish' are the main highlights) that get the hands clapping and the feet... well, you get the gist.
There's no mistaking the stars of tonight's soiree, however, and as the obligatory clothesline is draped with the requisite percussion instruments and the lights begin to dim, the atmosphere is positively electric. The 75 minute Greatest Hits (and then some) that follows is just about the perfect recipe to satisfy the rabid hordes, careering from one gigantic indie pop gem to another, only occasionally interrupted by lesser-known material from current record 'Life Is Elsewhere'.
And if, at times, the new tracks sound a little stifled, hinting perhaps that they could use a little bedding in, they're few enough to be forgiven. Before long, we're recklessly slamming into one another again as another 'In Search of Elusive...' classic erupts or one of the more recent singles gets an airing. Indeed, one of the night's foremost highlights is the delirium that greets 'Worry'; the corresponding singalong is almost enough to stun the band into silence. And five minutes later, this actually happens as the crowd bellow back the RIFF to 'One Night in October' and then engage in the greatest hand-clap/woo-woo/bounce-bounce combination this side of a Green Day concert during the frankly bonkers 'Dancing Song'.
Little Comets are humbled by all of this; at show's end, they seem genuinely stunned at the warmth of the reception, telling us that their 'silly little songs' were written in bedrooms in Jarrow for their own amusement and that they never expected that they would connect with so many. It's a typically British, and perhaps North Eastern, trait, downplaying one's talent, but it only increases the poignancy of the situation, hammering home the fact that tonight is something particularly special. The local boys done good, guys... now let's give 'em a hundred more nights as memorable as this one.
Saturday, 4 February 2012
Live review: The Maccabees (w/Trailer Trash Tracys), Newcastle O2 Academy, 29/01/12
THE MACCABEES (w/TRAILER TRASH TRACYS), Newcastle O2 Academy, 29/01/12
Make no mistake about it: Newcastle has fallen head over heels, hook, line and sinker for The Maccabees. Tonight's sell-out Academy show is packed to the rafters virtually from the off, the expectant hoards chowing down their respective Sunday roasts as quickly as humanly possible in a bid to get that all-important front row view of the UK's most promising indie upstarts. It's an impressive feat for the Sabbath day; end-of-the-week shows are notorious in gigging circles for proving to be something of a damp squib, audiences too worn out following a weekend of unrelenting hedonism to give it their all, or too depressed at the thought of having to return to the long, hard slog of gainful employment to really cut loose. But not so tonight, boys and girls; whether the 2,000 strong crowd decided to bypass their entire weekends for one 90-minute slice of nihilistic exuberance, or they've just temporarily forgotten that work, school or university awaits them tomorrow morning, there's no escaping the fact that tonight, Matthew, Newcastle is on fire, its chants as loud as St. James' Park, its vocals drowning out the band and its energy bouncing off the walls, electrifying every soul in the room.
'Dream-pop' support Trailer Trash Tracys don't elicit quite the same reaction, their ethereal brand of sensual shoegaze falling largely on impatient ears. It's a shame, as their recently released debut Ester is a sterling effort, but then, they were always going to be something of a gamble in an environment such as this. When approximately 80% of your crowd is made up of Two Door fans (and that's no bad thing, by the way), reverb and drum machines probably aren't going to cut it. Still, for all the quieter moments are drowned out by chatter, Newcastle is polite enough to applaud graciously and refrain from turning impatience into aggression. Before long, the test of endurance is over and the main attraction begins, the quietly self-conscious five-piece edging on stage to the intro from their current LP before segueing effortlessly into an otherworldly Child, the album's second track. Lead singer Orlando Wells' vocals are spine-tinglingly timid throughout, the perfect counterpoint to Hugo White's piercing stabs of cascading guitar. It's a juxtaposition that continues throughout the show, the unrelenting visceral intensity of the rhythm section balancing Wells' quiet modesty, creating the thrillingly off-kilter, contradictory sound that characterises the band and makes their most recent efforts such a joy to listen to.
Indeed, Given to the Wild, released a mere twenty days ago, is already a strong contender for album of the year, its multi-layered, darkly abrasive palette uncovering whole new delights with every listen. Understandably, tonight's set leans heavily on the record's charms, the Maccabees undoubtedly intensely proud of their most prolific body of work to date. There's the current singles, a heartbreaking Feel to Follow, a punk-as-fuck Pelican; the future singles, a soaring Went Away, an eardrum-bursting Unknow; and, of course, the thrillingly intense Forever I've Known which eviscerates all and sundry with its sheer, unadulterated brilliance. The track is in a league of its own and it only gets better live, sounding every bit the greatest and most powerful thing they've ever done. Bravely, the band even close on a new song, finishing their encore with a magnificent Grew Up at Midnight, Given to the Wild's final track. Thankfully, the devoted masses have already devoured every last nuance and learned every last word, so the response is every bit as excitable as those reserved for the 'classics'.
Arguably, The Maccabees don't even need to play these tonight; they have Newcastle eating out of the palms of their spindly hands and could probably just run straight through every last track on Wild, as well as a bunch of four-minute no-brainers written on the back of fag packets the night before, and still the atmosphere would be electric. Of course, it doesn't play out that way: it isn't long before a raucous Lego punctures the melancholia, followed closely behind by William Powers' pounding drumbeats, No Kind Words' angular guitar attacks and, of course, the inevitable arms-around-mates wig-out of First Love. Inevitably, the masses go ape shit, bodies slamming back and forth, sweat-drenched teens flying over our heads, and the band look on in awe, Cheshire cat grins spread permanently across their faces at the insanity they've created... and on a Sunday, no less. If this is how the world responds to The Maccabees now, less than a month into the release of their new record, then one can only imagine the giddy heights they may ascend to come spring and summer. Mark it down now, guys and gals: 2012 - the year of The Maccabees. Make no mistake about it.
Make no mistake about it: Newcastle has fallen head over heels, hook, line and sinker for The Maccabees. Tonight's sell-out Academy show is packed to the rafters virtually from the off, the expectant hoards chowing down their respective Sunday roasts as quickly as humanly possible in a bid to get that all-important front row view of the UK's most promising indie upstarts. It's an impressive feat for the Sabbath day; end-of-the-week shows are notorious in gigging circles for proving to be something of a damp squib, audiences too worn out following a weekend of unrelenting hedonism to give it their all, or too depressed at the thought of having to return to the long, hard slog of gainful employment to really cut loose. But not so tonight, boys and girls; whether the 2,000 strong crowd decided to bypass their entire weekends for one 90-minute slice of nihilistic exuberance, or they've just temporarily forgotten that work, school or university awaits them tomorrow morning, there's no escaping the fact that tonight, Matthew, Newcastle is on fire, its chants as loud as St. James' Park, its vocals drowning out the band and its energy bouncing off the walls, electrifying every soul in the room.
'Dream-pop' support Trailer Trash Tracys don't elicit quite the same reaction, their ethereal brand of sensual shoegaze falling largely on impatient ears. It's a shame, as their recently released debut Ester is a sterling effort, but then, they were always going to be something of a gamble in an environment such as this. When approximately 80% of your crowd is made up of Two Door fans (and that's no bad thing, by the way), reverb and drum machines probably aren't going to cut it. Still, for all the quieter moments are drowned out by chatter, Newcastle is polite enough to applaud graciously and refrain from turning impatience into aggression. Before long, the test of endurance is over and the main attraction begins, the quietly self-conscious five-piece edging on stage to the intro from their current LP before segueing effortlessly into an otherworldly Child, the album's second track. Lead singer Orlando Wells' vocals are spine-tinglingly timid throughout, the perfect counterpoint to Hugo White's piercing stabs of cascading guitar. It's a juxtaposition that continues throughout the show, the unrelenting visceral intensity of the rhythm section balancing Wells' quiet modesty, creating the thrillingly off-kilter, contradictory sound that characterises the band and makes their most recent efforts such a joy to listen to.
Indeed, Given to the Wild, released a mere twenty days ago, is already a strong contender for album of the year, its multi-layered, darkly abrasive palette uncovering whole new delights with every listen. Understandably, tonight's set leans heavily on the record's charms, the Maccabees undoubtedly intensely proud of their most prolific body of work to date. There's the current singles, a heartbreaking Feel to Follow, a punk-as-fuck Pelican; the future singles, a soaring Went Away, an eardrum-bursting Unknow; and, of course, the thrillingly intense Forever I've Known which eviscerates all and sundry with its sheer, unadulterated brilliance. The track is in a league of its own and it only gets better live, sounding every bit the greatest and most powerful thing they've ever done. Bravely, the band even close on a new song, finishing their encore with a magnificent Grew Up at Midnight, Given to the Wild's final track. Thankfully, the devoted masses have already devoured every last nuance and learned every last word, so the response is every bit as excitable as those reserved for the 'classics'.
Arguably, The Maccabees don't even need to play these tonight; they have Newcastle eating out of the palms of their spindly hands and could probably just run straight through every last track on Wild, as well as a bunch of four-minute no-brainers written on the back of fag packets the night before, and still the atmosphere would be electric. Of course, it doesn't play out that way: it isn't long before a raucous Lego punctures the melancholia, followed closely behind by William Powers' pounding drumbeats, No Kind Words' angular guitar attacks and, of course, the inevitable arms-around-mates wig-out of First Love. Inevitably, the masses go ape shit, bodies slamming back and forth, sweat-drenched teens flying over our heads, and the band look on in awe, Cheshire cat grins spread permanently across their faces at the insanity they've created... and on a Sunday, no less. If this is how the world responds to The Maccabees now, less than a month into the release of their new record, then one can only imagine the giddy heights they may ascend to come spring and summer. Mark it down now, guys and gals: 2012 - the year of The Maccabees. Make no mistake about it.
Thursday, 10 February 2011
Review: NME Awards Tour (Crystal Castles/Magnetic Man/Everything Everything/The Vaccines), Newcastle O2 Academy, 07/02/11
Another year, another NME Awards Tour and another round of much-heralded wannabes from the indie Zeitgeist, clawing to translate the magazine's excessive cock sucking into actual record sales. To be fair to the commendably diverse bunch on tonight's bill, they're all on the cusp of greater things, having wormed their way into the alternative consciousness by virtue of either a few undeniably catchy indie/electronica-pop ditties or the helping hand of the well-oiled hype machine. The question, of course, is whether they can earn their stripes and convince the rabid masses that they're worthy of their time, effort and download limits.
Unfortunately, things don't go too well for The Vaccines. Crippled by an atrocious sound guy, who seems determined to project internal organs out of mouths by turning the bass up to life-threatening, their four-to-the-floor indie scuzz gets lost in a sea of overbearing distortion, leaving the first half of the set pallid and lacking in character. The band seem acutely aware of the problem, going through the motions for the majority of the performance, and only really coming alive when 'Post Break Up Sex' wakes everyone up. Unfortunately, the three minute exercise in relentless drone-making sounds even worse live than on record, but nevertheless, the boys, girls, mums and dads in the audience get themselves all excited and, you know, jump up and down a bit. 'Wrecking Bar (Ra Ra Ra)' very nearly saves the day, sounding positively invigorating for its wonderfully brief one minute and twenty-four seconds, but sadly, the set doesn't end here and the Vaccines continue for a further ten minutes of incomprehensible caterwauling.
Local heroes Everything Everything suffer too. Lead singer Jonathan Higgs' vocals are too low down in the mix and their uniquely intricate, delicately flavoured sound becomes lost in translation in such an imposing venue. All is not entirelyn lost, however: 'Schoolin' and 'MY KZ YR BF' sound thrilling and 'Photoshop Handsome' is one of the evening's undeniable highlights, giving the crowd the first excuse to shake their asses in fantastically embarrassing fashion. And the Devo-esque full body uniforms are pretty nifty too.
Magnetic Man is essentially an exercise in pantomime, with hired hand Sgt Pokes proving a most effective showman, adept at working this bounciest of crowds (incite a repetitive action, praise the crowd, crack a terrible joke/pun and repeat ad nauseum). However, he does seem a bit of a waste: there's no actual skill involved here, no rapping and barely any MCing. The DJs don't really do much either, essentially playing a bunch of records for half an hour, while Newcastle goes ape shit. This might as well be a Friday night at Digital, for which we'd all pay a hell of a lot less. It doesn't help that every song sounds the bleedin' same: take one grime/dubstep-influenced 'dirty' beat, add a few vocoder effects, sprinkle with some keyboard wizardry and hey presto, you've got yourselves a hit.
Crystal Castles suffer from no such problem; their undeniably varied palette is every possible shade of shite imaginable. The aural equivalent of a prolonged enema, these guys are an excruciating migraine of a band, whose primary remit appears to be to spew as much pretentious wank as possible on an unsuspecting public before imploding in a haze of their own bullshit. Unfortunately guys, a load of incomprehensible screaming and a Spectrum ZX81 do not a good record make.
And yet, strangely, there's something undeniably captivating about their live show. Like all good car wrecks, it's just impossible to look away; Alice Glass cuts a mean, imposing figure stood atop the monitors, perched on her broken ankle (now there's a commendable feat... performing with such a painful injury and jumping up and down on it), beckoning to the crowd, goading the masses, looking like the coolest fucker in the world. And then there's Ethan Kath, silent as a mouse, face hidden by his hoodie, quietly ushering those otherworldly noises out of his CASIO keyboard (or whatever the hell it is). They're shrouded in darkness of course, punctuated only by the myriad strobe lights that threaten to blind the pill-happy audience. It's an arresting visual and one that ensures you won't take your eyes off the stage. Now if only we could press the 'mute' button.
So, the verdict? The jury is well and truly out. There are no legendary moments, no game-changing, once-in-a-lifetime performances, but there are no unmitigated disasters either. The Vaccines come closest to disappointing us, losing their oomph thanks to some very poor sound decisions, but even these guys have their ace in the hole. Everything Everything have moments that impress, Magnetic Man steal the audience's hearts despite sounding somewhat monochrome and Crystal Castles achieve the unenviable feat of convincing even the most vehement of haters that they're at least worth watching. Not quite the well-rounded success story these bright young things would've wanted but hell, it's a start, eh?
Unfortunately, things don't go too well for The Vaccines. Crippled by an atrocious sound guy, who seems determined to project internal organs out of mouths by turning the bass up to life-threatening, their four-to-the-floor indie scuzz gets lost in a sea of overbearing distortion, leaving the first half of the set pallid and lacking in character. The band seem acutely aware of the problem, going through the motions for the majority of the performance, and only really coming alive when 'Post Break Up Sex' wakes everyone up. Unfortunately, the three minute exercise in relentless drone-making sounds even worse live than on record, but nevertheless, the boys, girls, mums and dads in the audience get themselves all excited and, you know, jump up and down a bit. 'Wrecking Bar (Ra Ra Ra)' very nearly saves the day, sounding positively invigorating for its wonderfully brief one minute and twenty-four seconds, but sadly, the set doesn't end here and the Vaccines continue for a further ten minutes of incomprehensible caterwauling.
Local heroes Everything Everything suffer too. Lead singer Jonathan Higgs' vocals are too low down in the mix and their uniquely intricate, delicately flavoured sound becomes lost in translation in such an imposing venue. All is not entirelyn lost, however: 'Schoolin' and 'MY KZ YR BF' sound thrilling and 'Photoshop Handsome' is one of the evening's undeniable highlights, giving the crowd the first excuse to shake their asses in fantastically embarrassing fashion. And the Devo-esque full body uniforms are pretty nifty too.
Magnetic Man is essentially an exercise in pantomime, with hired hand Sgt Pokes proving a most effective showman, adept at working this bounciest of crowds (incite a repetitive action, praise the crowd, crack a terrible joke/pun and repeat ad nauseum). However, he does seem a bit of a waste: there's no actual skill involved here, no rapping and barely any MCing. The DJs don't really do much either, essentially playing a bunch of records for half an hour, while Newcastle goes ape shit. This might as well be a Friday night at Digital, for which we'd all pay a hell of a lot less. It doesn't help that every song sounds the bleedin' same: take one grime/dubstep-influenced 'dirty' beat, add a few vocoder effects, sprinkle with some keyboard wizardry and hey presto, you've got yourselves a hit.
Crystal Castles suffer from no such problem; their undeniably varied palette is every possible shade of shite imaginable. The aural equivalent of a prolonged enema, these guys are an excruciating migraine of a band, whose primary remit appears to be to spew as much pretentious wank as possible on an unsuspecting public before imploding in a haze of their own bullshit. Unfortunately guys, a load of incomprehensible screaming and a Spectrum ZX81 do not a good record make.
And yet, strangely, there's something undeniably captivating about their live show. Like all good car wrecks, it's just impossible to look away; Alice Glass cuts a mean, imposing figure stood atop the monitors, perched on her broken ankle (now there's a commendable feat... performing with such a painful injury and jumping up and down on it), beckoning to the crowd, goading the masses, looking like the coolest fucker in the world. And then there's Ethan Kath, silent as a mouse, face hidden by his hoodie, quietly ushering those otherworldly noises out of his CASIO keyboard (or whatever the hell it is). They're shrouded in darkness of course, punctuated only by the myriad strobe lights that threaten to blind the pill-happy audience. It's an arresting visual and one that ensures you won't take your eyes off the stage. Now if only we could press the 'mute' button.
So, the verdict? The jury is well and truly out. There are no legendary moments, no game-changing, once-in-a-lifetime performances, but there are no unmitigated disasters either. The Vaccines come closest to disappointing us, losing their oomph thanks to some very poor sound decisions, but even these guys have their ace in the hole. Everything Everything have moments that impress, Magnetic Man steal the audience's hearts despite sounding somewhat monochrome and Crystal Castles achieve the unenviable feat of convincing even the most vehement of haters that they're at least worth watching. Not quite the well-rounded success story these bright young things would've wanted but hell, it's a start, eh?
Saturday, 29 January 2011
Review: Band of Horses (Newcastle O2 Academy, 26/01/11)
Well hello, Band of Horses. It's been a while. Too long for some, if the deafening round of applause that greets the arrival of the Seattle six piece is anything to judge by. Newcastle's prestigious O2 Academy may not be sold out this evening but it certainly feels like it and there's little doubt that our favourite alt-rock-cum-Americana-folksters (okay, so perhaps that's a bit over the top) are rather stoked about this fact. Cheesy grins and awestruck exclamations are the order of the day for the snazzily-dressed noisemakers and consequently, the ninety minutes we share in their company are characterised by one thing only: the determination to have some fun.
Yes, Band of Horses are here to have a gosh-darned-it good time and they want you to share the experience. Sure, their music may lapse more often than not into melancholia and it's not as if any of the songs they deign to unleash on us this evening would go down particularly well at parties, but what the hey, let's stamp our feet, shake our heads and bellow the words like this is Muse at Wembley Stadium. Or something equally as spine-tingling. How hard can it be? Too hard for Newcastle, apparently. For all this is a resolutely attentive and considerably devoted crowd, there's barely a hint of movement for the majority of the set. Instead, the good folk of this most acclaimed of 'party cities' prefer to keep their feet firmly on the ground, their eyes focused squarely on the stage and their minds free of anything that might allow the music to animate them. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, of course; there's no question that everyone here is having a wail of a time, but it does leave the whole experience feeling a little staid. The general ignorance doesn't help matters: if it isn't from 'Cease To Begin', the Geordies haven't a clue, which leads Ben to request that 'if anyone knows the words to any of these, just let us know' around six songs in.
This disappointment is only momentary, however. Band of Horses's skillful command of the stage quickly allows all thoughts of the audience's failings to fitter away to nothing and attention turns to the powerful depth of emotion inherent in their performance. The 'Infinite Arms' numbers nail introspection, Ben joining Tyler for an achingly tender run through 'Evening Kitchen' (pity some 'dildo', as Ben describes him, almost ruins it by shouting throughout the song). 'Cigarettes, Wedding Bands' and 'The Funeral' rock like absolute bastards, building and building to their inevitable crescendos and exploding in a shower of deliciously fuzzy guitar haze, the likes of which were last seen when The Arcade Fire shot their load all over the main stage at Glastonbury.
And then, of course, there's 'Is There A Ghost?' - met with the loudest singalong of the evening and matching all our expectations, glistening with intensity - and 'No One's Gonna Love You', cracked, broken, imperfect and just plain brilliant. Eyes are shut, fists are clenched, arms are flung around lovers and tears fall down the faces of the broken hearted as Newcastle finally allows itself a moment of untempered enjoyment. If Band of Horses have a legacy, it will surely be the remarkable honesty and resonance of this song, their 'It's My Own Cheating Heart...', their 'Don't Look Back In Anger', their 'Hallelujah'. The gig is much more than these three minutes but they encapsulate the band's genius more effectively than any two bit cliche we could hope to muster up.
There's little doubt that tonight's 23 song soiree is a resounding success (and yes, that even takes into account the static shots of trees, animals and suburban vistas that make up the visuals) but then, when you're presented with a group of individuals with the depth of talent on display here, it would be churlish to expect anything less. The jury's still out on the audience - attentiveness is great sure, but a little animation wouldn't go amiss - but then, that's Newcastle's problem. Band of Horses gave this city every last weapon in their impressive arsenal and that, my friends, is all we really need.
Yes, Band of Horses are here to have a gosh-darned-it good time and they want you to share the experience. Sure, their music may lapse more often than not into melancholia and it's not as if any of the songs they deign to unleash on us this evening would go down particularly well at parties, but what the hey, let's stamp our feet, shake our heads and bellow the words like this is Muse at Wembley Stadium. Or something equally as spine-tingling. How hard can it be? Too hard for Newcastle, apparently. For all this is a resolutely attentive and considerably devoted crowd, there's barely a hint of movement for the majority of the set. Instead, the good folk of this most acclaimed of 'party cities' prefer to keep their feet firmly on the ground, their eyes focused squarely on the stage and their minds free of anything that might allow the music to animate them. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, of course; there's no question that everyone here is having a wail of a time, but it does leave the whole experience feeling a little staid. The general ignorance doesn't help matters: if it isn't from 'Cease To Begin', the Geordies haven't a clue, which leads Ben to request that 'if anyone knows the words to any of these, just let us know' around six songs in.
This disappointment is only momentary, however. Band of Horses's skillful command of the stage quickly allows all thoughts of the audience's failings to fitter away to nothing and attention turns to the powerful depth of emotion inherent in their performance. The 'Infinite Arms' numbers nail introspection, Ben joining Tyler for an achingly tender run through 'Evening Kitchen' (pity some 'dildo', as Ben describes him, almost ruins it by shouting throughout the song). 'Cigarettes, Wedding Bands' and 'The Funeral' rock like absolute bastards, building and building to their inevitable crescendos and exploding in a shower of deliciously fuzzy guitar haze, the likes of which were last seen when The Arcade Fire shot their load all over the main stage at Glastonbury.
And then, of course, there's 'Is There A Ghost?' - met with the loudest singalong of the evening and matching all our expectations, glistening with intensity - and 'No One's Gonna Love You', cracked, broken, imperfect and just plain brilliant. Eyes are shut, fists are clenched, arms are flung around lovers and tears fall down the faces of the broken hearted as Newcastle finally allows itself a moment of untempered enjoyment. If Band of Horses have a legacy, it will surely be the remarkable honesty and resonance of this song, their 'It's My Own Cheating Heart...', their 'Don't Look Back In Anger', their 'Hallelujah'. The gig is much more than these three minutes but they encapsulate the band's genius more effectively than any two bit cliche we could hope to muster up.
There's little doubt that tonight's 23 song soiree is a resounding success (and yes, that even takes into account the static shots of trees, animals and suburban vistas that make up the visuals) but then, when you're presented with a group of individuals with the depth of talent on display here, it would be churlish to expect anything less. The jury's still out on the audience - attentiveness is great sure, but a little animation wouldn't go amiss - but then, that's Newcastle's problem. Band of Horses gave this city every last weapon in their impressive arsenal and that, my friends, is all we really need.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)