Of
late, post-Swindon Shuffle July has tended to be a fallow period for gigs, with
bands eschewing national tours in favour of playing one or more of the myriad
of outdoor Festivals that are increasingly dotted around our sceptered isle.
Kudos then to this lot, Antipodean jangle-rabble Rolling Blackouts Coastal
Fever (henceforth, again, RBCF!) for not only circumnavigating the globe to do
a UK club tour for the second time in a matter of months (see gig 1,107, my
October ’18 pre-hols Portsmouth jaunt), but also choosing to do said tour in
July! After a fine showing in Pompey, last time out, I was up for more, and
this interest was shared not only by Aussie rock aficionado Rich May, but also
Tim, Rich Carter and his sister in law Laura!
So,
a full carload on the hottest day of the year required not only an early start
for pickups (we finally hit the M4 at 10 to 7, a full 50 minutes after I’d
initially set off for Tim’s!), but, thanks to a lack of air-con fluid, open
windows along the M4! We parked up in the usual close but expensive NCP, then
ventured into Reading town centre so Rich C could hit a Brewdog for a craft
beer sampling before the gig (that’s a thing these days… not drunk for 16 ½
years now, so I wouldn’t know!). No great loss, as it turned out… we arrived
back at the venue for 8.30, midway through Our Girl’s set; a 3-piece featuring Soph
Nathan of (inexplicably) Mercury Prize nominees The Big Moon, they were playing
some third-rate loud-quiet sub-grungy mess which sounded incredibly dated,
making me think old Soph had been rummaging through Pillbox’s dustbin for
ideas, rather than through Sleeper’s bin, as TBM evidently did…!
We’d
wormed our way to the front, house left against a handy pillar but with our heads
practically in the left speaker stack… this was going to be noisy as well as
very sweaty…! RBCF joined us at 9.15 to a cheesy synth disco backing track,
swarthy main vocalist Fran Keaney leading the charge into racy, pacy opener “Colours
Run”, sawing furiously away at his battered acoustic whilst his 3 other guitar
(+bass) wielding bandmates whirled feverishly around the stage like clockwork
models affected by centrifugal force. I started bopping in my spot, but was
immediately joined by 2 blokes who leant against the pillar (my
pillar!!), shrinking my dancing spot considerably. Fuck ‘em, I thought, and just
kept on bopping…!
Luckily
I had the right band for that tonight; RBCF’s material falls pretty squarely
into 2 distinct camps, namely fast and frantic upbeat and jangly indie-powerpop,
and, erm, not so fast and less frantic more of the same (!), all underpinned by
intricate, intertwining guitar grooves and that trademark resonant and
insistent indie jangle-reverb. So “Hammer” was a swayalong groove with a
singalong hook, sung in a more laconic Noo Yawk 70’s street drawl by co-vocalist
Tom Russo, and a more upbeat “Sick Bug” with an undulating riff distinctly
reminiscent of “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” (!) initiated a sweaty moshpit at the
front, much to the consternation of a) a steward in the pit, who reacted as if
he’d never seen a moshpit before, immediately eyeing up anyone dancing too vigorously
as if to throw them out (!) and b) some over made-up woman in a mustard dress,
who reacted as if she’d never been to a gig before, treating everyone who as
much as bumped into her as if it were a personal affront. Hate to break it to
you both, but that’s what happens at gigs…!
In
fact, the band positively encouraged such wild and reckless behaviour, Keaney expressing
incredulity at the mosh, at one point commenting, “Tuesday’s a lame night [for
a gig] but we like this [audience reaction]!” A yearning “Bellarine” nearly got
me in, but the excellent, effervescent “Talking Straight” actually did, the
mosh breathless and a bit violent but overall good natured. The surf-pop of “Mainland”
was groovy as all hell with a looped, building chorus, and “Fountain” was a
slightly uncharacteristic Real Estate-like slow-burner with stream of
consciousness vocals from bassist Joe White. A fine set was capped by a couple
of typically frantic encores (including Rich May’s favourite “Cappuccino City”),
after which everyone emerged, soaked but happy (I think even mustard dress
woman eventually took the stick out of her ass and enjoyed herself!
A
wrong turn saw us tramping around Reading town centre awhile (and stopping at
every! Single! Fucking! Red! Light!) before we eventually hit the road for a
swift drive home, lit up on the way by nature’s own pyrotechnic display on the horizon.
Luckily into bed before the thunder and torrential rain joined the lightning
party; I’d already been soaked in the moshpit by RBCF – once was enough tonight,
thanks!
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