1,288 CHAMELEONS, Whistleblowers, Holmfirth Picturedrome, Saturday 8th July 2023

 

Another gig centring around renewing acquaintances with an old friend, albeit this one being intentional and pre-arranged… Earlier this year, I’d re-connected on Facebook with my old school friend Jennifer, a lady who was largely responsible for keeping me sane during my difficult 6^th Form schooldays, and with whom I’d kept in touch for a subsequent period in the 80’s, visiting her at Warwick University for gigs by The Fall and the Smiths in late 1983/ early ’84 (gigs 10 and 11!). Life got in the way and we lost touch, but it was great to reconnect, and a plan was hatched to visit her in Holmfirth, where she now resides with husband Paul, when a decent enough band was due to play at fabled local gig venue The Picturedrome. And they don’t get much more “decent” than 80’s anthemic post-punk/ goth heroes The Chameleons!

 So, I hit the road early Saturday oop North, clearing Manchester and heading through impossibly scenic windswept vistas on Saddleworth Moor, and equally impossibly winding and near-vertical single track country lanes up to Jen’s hilltop home. Much catching up ensued, the years falling away, before Jen, Paul and I headed down into Holmfirth (which despite prima facae seeming a dour, grey bricked typically Northern town huddled in the base of a valley around the confluence of 2 rivers, was actually quite a happening place, with lots of interesting craft and boutique pubs and upmarket eateries) for a splendid gourmet burger tea at Lou & Joes, before joining the queue at the venue at 7.30. As the name suggests, The Picturedrome is an evocative old mid-sized (I guessed 800?) picture house venue, exuding faded vintage silver screen glamour, and we took balcony seats overlooking house left. Stayed there for veteran support Whistleblowers, on at 8.30. A local trio from Ashton-Under-Lyme, they were sadly very dull in a very dull way (!), plying some low-key, plodding 60’s folky psych Fillmore East fayre which shudderingly recalled Midlake when they hit the flares and double-denims. Later numbers floated into midnight jazz café territory, before returning to the flimsy hippy stuff. Not well played and somewhat off-key vocal-wise to my ears as well, I’m afraid.

 I took a wander down the front afterwards, still pitching up a couple of rows back, joined briefly by Paul and also chatting to India, a lady who’d posted in the Chameleons Facebook fan page about her journey from paraplegic wheelchair usage, to now just needing one stick. Brilliant job, you go girl! The eerie Cocteaus-ish entrance music heralded the Chameleons’ arrival onstage at 9.30, a false start due to technical issues with Reg’s guitar pick-up (“it’s always the newbies!” quipped granite-hewn vocalist/bassist/main-man Mark Burgess) being eventually sorted before the band plunged into the plangent ringing chimes of opener “Paper Tigers” to rapturous applause from the cultish devotees. “I hope it’s not going to be one of those nights,” warned Burgess before the Sophie Lancaster dedication preceded a chilling “A Person Isn’t Safe Anywhere These Days”, delivered with neck-bulging, scary conviction by the man. Sorry mate, I think it is…!

 

Correct. The Chameleons were on fire from note one tonight, delivering a brilliantly passionate, strident performance of their atmospheric and textural yet huge and anthemic post-punk mood music, often deploying both their usual weapons of slowing down the material “live” to give it extra breathing room and gravitas, and throwing in unexpected lyrical references from the likes of Bowie, The Fall, The Clash, The Smiths and predominantly The Beatles. That said, it took until “Monkeyland”, 5^th number in, for the crowd to respond in kind, the eerie slow build of the first verse suddenly bursting into the roof-raising “trick of the light” hook like a cork from a champagne bottle, precipitating a boisterous yet largely good-natured moshpit which remained throughout, where the main rules of engagement were arms-aloft inclusive raucous singalongs and bearhugs from total strangers. Although we’re not really strangers, We Are All Chameleons, after all…!

 “Looking Inwardly” and “Up The Down Escalator” were two fast-paced, brutal mid-set gut punches, the air becoming a scarce commodity in the kinetic sauna the Picturedrome had suddenly become (I actually turned to a fellow punter and remarked, “I think I can forget about breathing for the next hour or so!”); “Soul In Isolation” was a staggering, swaggering affirmation of life (“I’m alive in here!” again a roof-raising terrace chant hook); and a later “Swamp Thing” an undulating, libidinous thing of joy and wonder, the guitar interplay in the build to the first verse just gorgeous. Yet set closer, “Second Skin” topped the lot; preceded by thanks from a drenched Burgess (who’d given it his all tonight) and a sermon about creating experiences and living in the now, this was a lengthy and magnificent all-inclusive manifesto for The Chameleons “live” experience in particular, and rock’n’roll gigs in general. The stuff dreams are made of, indeed!

 A couple of encores (a roaring, none-more-punk “In Shreds” and a sinister, anthemic “Don’t Fall”) before the boys took well-deserved bows and left us breathless and euphoric after another stellar performance. Grabbed a list and a quick chat with keyboard player Daniel afterwards before meeting Jen and Paul outside. A quick taxi back up the hill, then a much-needed breather and fluid intake before towelling myself down and making use of the spare room for the night. More catching up the next morning over a splendid fry-up brunch, before bidding fond farewells and driving to Manchester, meeting my son Evan for a roast Sunday lunch at Mr. Thomas’ Chop House in the city centre, then hitting the road at 3.30 for a difficult roadworks, traffic and thunderstorm-affected drive down South, home for 7. Just a lovely weekend in excellent company, though, both on and offstage. Thanks Evan, The Chameleons, and mostly Paul and Jennifer… hopefully this won’t be the last time we light up The Picturedrome!

1,287 JIM BOB, Bristol Rough Trade Records, Sunday 2nd July 2023

 

A chance tonight to renew acquaintances with an old gig face! I was a big fan of Jim Bob’s mid-80’s jangle pop band Jamie Wednesday, and despite numerous false starts I even managed to see them “live” once, in Bristol in May 1987 supporting The Men They Couldn’t Hang (gig 78!). I’d subsequently turned up to meet Jim and Co. before their next gig, again on the undercard for TMTCH, at The Astoria in August later that year (gig 85), only to be informed by the man that the JDubs (as they were known to both of their fans) had split up earlier that week, but that he and bandmate Les were going to play the gig backed up by a drum machine. Thus it was that I unwittingly attended the first ever Carter The Unstoppable Sex Machine gig…! Carter USM took awhile to really inveigle themselves into my consciousness, but I eventually became a fan, watching with a mixture of pride and “I saw them first” smugness as they quickly rose to briefly become 90’s Indie press darlings (Steve Lamacq, my favourite NME hack back then, being particularly fulsome in his praise) and Festival headliners. Since their late 90’s dissolution, I confess I’d not kept up much with Jim’s subsequent solo career; however we’d enjoyed his recent performances at Shiiine On, both solo and with his band The Hoodrats, and tonight, a CD release show at Bristol’s splendid Rough Trade for new album “Thanks For Reaching Out”, represented an opportunity not only to catch up with his current works, but also, perchance, to briefly revisit those JDubs days…

 So I packed up my Gigbook No. 1 (featuring the setlist from said JDubs gig) plus a folder-full of newsletters and correspondence I’d kept from those days, and, with a curious Jami joining me at the last minute (Rach and Logan being away for the weekend), hit a sunny M4 about ¼ to 6, joining a queue to get in on arrival. Got drinks and chatted with a chap about US popsters Cheekface before joining Jami, who’d bagged a front and centre spot. Nice work! Jim Bob joined us at 7.30, accompanied by bandmate and Jack Black lookalike Chris, who acted as MC for an entertaining half hour of chat, highlights being the retelling of the infamous Carter USM HMV Oxford Street instore appearance, when manager Jon “Fat” Beast encouraged the crowd to shoplift, and Jacob Rees-Mogg’s (adverse) reaction to being featured in Jim’s recent video for “Sebastian’s Gone On A Ridealong”! Some Q&A’s too (I asked about his appearances at Shiiine On, and Jami asked about his favourite own compositions), but generally an entertaining and funny half hour of easy bonhomie.

 

Finally Jim dispensed with the banter, bolted on his electric guitar and treated us to a half hour performance of selections from the new album, accompanied by Chris on keys. Opener “Thanks For Reaching Out” was a melancholy yet strangely uplifting ballad, “What Goes Around” had a dark and menacing murder ballad feel reminiscent of Nick Cave, and “Sebastian” itself was a snarky and sarky number about politicians paying lip service to good works. All the new material, however, happily featured the usual Jim Bob lyrical gift for highlighting both the mundane minutiae of humdrum everyday existence and the absurdity of current world events, and subverting them into cynical yet memorable pun-like soundbites. More entertaining banter too; a chat with the crowd about cancel culture, a remark about his glasses slipping leading to a terrible Graham Coxon Blur joke, and a story of how Carter USM and Westlife nearly got into a brawl at a Festival!

“Billionaire In Space” was a highlight, slightly recalling Bowie’s “Space Oddity” for me, and “Befriend The Police” featured the ironic hook, “bring on the dancing nurses”… a Bunnymen reference perhaps? “Prince Of Wales” (about a pub, apparently!) rounded off a fine acoustic rendering of some very melodic new songs; I’m happy copies of the record were included in the ticket price, because I can’t wait to hear them on CD…

 

Joined the queue at the end, along with another father/ daughter couple who intended to pitch the idea for a Carter USM musical to Jim! Our turn eventually came, and I shared my Jamie Wednesday stuff with a softly-spoken but incredulous Jim, who claimed to remember me from those days (aah, that’s nice!) and was amazed that I’d kept all that stuff. A brief chat, congrats from me about Carter’s success down the years, pics and signatures with the man later, we gave way to the “pitch” duo, Jami the musical theatre fan earwigging on their plans, before grabbing some food from the Greek takeaway on the corner and hitting the road, home for 10. Lovely to catch up with Jim Bob after all these years, and great to hear some quality new material from an entirely promising new album, which will certainly ensure I keep a closer eye on his exploits in future!

1,286 B SYDES, Old Man Boom, Swindon The Tuppenny, Thursday 29th June 2023

 

A stellar gig June closes out with a local one! Up The Tupp’ for the first time in awhile (my first this year, in fact, the last being Si and Matt’s gig last July, gig 1,239!) to catch a solo acoustic set from “live” favourite Ben Sydes, this time being the 10^th such occasion! Potential for another, more significant landmark as well, but we’ll get on to that later… B Sydes’ set tonight was billed by the venue as “Contemporary and Authentic Folk Punk delivered with power, personality and purpose”; I certainly wouldn’t argue about the delivery, but for me there’s an edgier, angst-fuelled emo element to Ben’s music which differentiates him from his folky solo acoustic guy contemporaries, so I was happy to finally get the man into double figures in my “gigs seen” account tonight…

 Drove up the hill and hit the bar just after 8 for some entertaining rock chat with local gig entrepreneurs Ed Dyer and Dave Franklin, before taking a seat for support Old Man Boom just before 8.30. Opening with a “love letter” to 70’s cheesy crooner Demis Roussos, his set then centred more on darker subject matter such as witches and serial killers (to be fair, the man pre-warned us with, “if you don’t like dark things… this isn’t the set for you”) played with a stark, deadpan delivery and a battered banjo. Unfortunately, it appeared said instrument wasn’t the only battered thing in his set; a sea-shanty esque “Hail Satan” (his clergy grandma’s least favourite song, unsurprisingly) required a few stops for Mr. Boom to remember lyrics, and it appeared an all-day drinking sesh with Ben earlier was taking its' toll. It reminded me of a similar all-dayer in my beer-soaked 20’s, after which I attempted to play badminton in the evening! I held my own for a couple of sets but by the end was helplessly flailing around, and despite a more coherent closer and much goodwill from the audience, it sadly felt Old Man Boom was doing the same. Hopefully next time I catch him (no worries, there will be a next time), he’ll be a little more together…

 

I grabbed another drink then ran into my old footy buddy John, out on a college “do”, before also catching up with gig friend Joanna and re-taking my house left spot for B Sydes’ headlining set just before 9.30. If Ben was feeling the effects of any earlier imbibing with Old Man Boom, however, it certainly didn’t show at all, as from the off he was relaxed, urbane and at ease, interacting frequently and entertainingly with the full and lively crowd, particularly the front table which included his tour mate (and of course another “live” favourite of mine) Gaz Brookfield, his lady wife Angela and guests. This one was a rescheduled show from last November (“I got the big bad”, according to Ben), and he was in the mood to make up for lost time; openers “5 Minutes” and “Crutches” were both tense and taut, an angular “All At Sea” saw Gaz and mates circle moshing in their seats (!), and “This Was My City Once”, despite Ben being distracted by boy racers outside, was a melancholy and understated singalong, Ben ramping up the passion for a more strident middle 8.

 However, a new number completely stole the show for me; unnamed at present (“B.O.B” on the list – Ben did mention what the initials stood for, but discretion prevents me from telling you), it was a fast paced, sinister and dramatic exposition about the post-Covid reclamation of “live” events, bringing out Ben’s best and most impassioned vocal delivery of the night. Great stuff, a number I’d really love to hear with a full band (hint, hint…). Ben then bolted on the harmonica, snarkily quipping, “first time at a gig is it?” at Gaz, who knocked his mic-stand on his way outside for a smoke (!) before another singalong to “The Desperate Dance”. Then the dissonant and menacingly moody “Still In Saigon” ended the set proper, Ben subsequently returning to big up Mr. Brookfield’s merchandise (Ben having sported a “Land Pirate” cap for this gig instead of his standard woolly tea cosy) prior to an entirely apposite “Good Times”, another rousing singalong closing out a performance full of great tunes and good times.

 

As for the more “significant” landmark, that came afterwards as Ben handed me his set and signed it with a gold sharpie I’d brought along for the occasion – said occasion being my 1,000^th set-list! Ben seemed genuinely pleased that his list achieved this honour, but after his performance tonight it was well deserved. Brief chats with the man, plus Gaz, before I bade farewell to all and sundry before heading off down the hill and home. A damn fine evening up the ‘Tupp, courtesy of B Sydes, to round off a splendid gigging June!

1,285 SIOUXSIE, Wolverhampton Civic Hall, Wednesday 21st June 2023

 

I get an unexpected chance tonight to right a 30-year gig wrong… I’d initially discovered Siouxsie And The Banshees in my early teens, of course, in that heady rush of late 70’s punk, enjoying their short, snappy singles (particularly the dramatic cascade of “Love In A Void” and circular fairground dervish dance of “Spellbound”, both excellent to dance to at Under 18 Brunel nightclub!), but oddly never delved further into their album material, even as they and I morphed into a mid-80’s Goth phase. So by their performance at Reading Festival 1993 (gig 248) they were well and truly out of step with my then largely US alt-rock dominated tastes; I gave them a few numbers, got bored, and walked away…

 My mistake. My 2016 post-redundancy re-evaluation of a few bands that had previously passed me by included The Banshees earlier albums, and I fell hard for their intricate, introspective post-punk pseudo-Goth sound and particularly the unique and inspired fretwork of the late John McGeoch on the excellent “Juju”. I immediately regretted I hadn’t paid more attention back then, and lamented the fact that I’d likely never get to see any of that material played “live”, given iconic lead singer Siouxsie’s apparent retirement to the wilds of rural France. So when scarcely believable news broke earlier this year that la Sioux was breaking a 15-year retirement to play a couple of European Festivals, I hoped against hope for a UK non-Fest date and was duly rewarded with this one, booking tix immediately. Wolverhampton? A bit of a trek, but who cares?

 Also joining me were old school buddy Keith Turner, with whom I’d bonded over punk rock back then, and his lovely wife Jen. Hit the road North at 4, hitting slow traffic off the M5 but parking up next to the venue just after 6 and wandering into the city centre for Thai curry tea! Back about 7.30, eventually squeezing into a house left spot, about 10 rows back, in this large and recently expensively refurbished auditorium. It didn’t feel like a gig venue; the toilets were clean and there was no queue at the bar! The place filled up in anticipation of Siouxsie’s arrival – no support tonight– and I noted with dismay a proliferation of 2 kinds of irregular gig goers; the entitled “5 to 3” late arrival types trying to shove in front of everyone, and conversely the “won’t move a muscle” folks usually prevalent in Boston! As I’m used to a bit of ebb and flow in the audience, this all felt a bit unnecessary, and made for a tense and uncomfortable atmosphere…

 Purporting to start at 8.30 prompt, the lights however didn’t dim until 20 to 9, the black clad backing band taking the stage to a baroque pastoral backing track. Finally la Sioux appeared… dressed (nay, draped) in flowing powder blue dress and sporting Cruella streaks of grey, she was immediately the focus as the band eased into the gloomy grunge growl of opener “Nightshift”. Mid-sixties now, but her charismatic stage presence was immediately apparent, grandiose of gesture, and The Voice of legend as inscrutable, insouciant and aloof as hoped, and dominant in the mix. A few flat notes, but hey, 15 years offstage is a loooong time…

 

That said, the early stages of the set drifted for me a little, an early, plangent “Arabian Nights” (which was preceded, oddly, by Siouxsie complimenting the local football team’s badge; “Black wolf’s head, what’s not to fucking love about that?!”) and the descending carousel twirl of “Dear Prudence” notwithstanding. Also, Siouxsie seemed a little unhappy with the onstage sound (commenting, “it’s swampy up here” and later challenging the venue to, “get your priorities right!”). However, things started looking up with “Cities In Dust” which was elegiac, sweeping and stately, and the Burundi style tribal percussion of a subsequent “But Not Them” was a dramatic and absorbing beast. The subsequent “Sin In My Heart” however really kick-started the set into life, the careering and seething punk rock thrill-ride of one of “Juju”’s highlights being overlaid by easily Siouxsie’s best vocal performance of the night for me, strident and powerful.

 After that, it was brilliant! The moody, bass-led “Christine” was followed by the terrific skeletal backbeat pitter-patter of “Happy House” and the hard-edged, heavy set closer “Into A Swan”, Siouxsie leading the band offstage briefly, only to re-emerge for the taut and tense “Switch” and an excellent rendition of “Spellbound” before exiting with a huge bouquet of flowers. We were then treated to a second encore, the wonderful oriental chimes of debut “Hong Kong Garden”, then the haunting slow-burn of “Israel” to close out a 1 hour 40 overall performance, Siouxsie leaving us with thanks and a flourish. I’d have liked a little more, particularly given the lack of support, but I couldn’t deny the old girl had put in a shift, ably backed by a very proficient if slightly anonymous band. And (unlike la Sioux) I had no complaints about the sound!

Managed to grab a list (my 999^th!) before a difficult drive home, involving 2 lengthy diversions off the M5 and A419, eventually getting back at 1 a.m. after dropping Keith and Jen off. A slowish start to the set, maybe, but definitely a strong finish, and fine company both on and offstage. I’m glad I got the chance to right this ancient gig wrong, so thank you Siouxsie!

1,284 THE MENZINGERS, Hot Mass, Bristol Thekla, Tuesday 20th June 2023

 

Yup, that’s The Menzingers on “The Dirty Boat” in the middle of a heatwave; this one could get seriously sweaty…

 Scranton, PA’s finest purveyors of heartfelt heartland US emo-tinged blue collar alternative rock are gaining an increasing profile of late on both my gig “Dance Card” and listening habits, almost – almost! – coming close to supplanting the likes of The Hold Steady and even Jimmy Eat World in my affections in that regard. A devastating punk rock performance last time out at the cavernous Roundhouse (October 2022, gig 1,247) in front of their biggest ever crowd (2,601 on the night, apparently!) blasted them into my favourite gig list last year, and ensured I’d be up for more. However, I wasn’t expecting this one, a hastily-arranged gig at the relatively minuscule Thekla (400 at a squeeze!) to coincide with a couple of UK Festival performances. I jumped on this the second the tix went on sale; good thing too, as an hour later they were gone!

 So, anticipating a hot and busy one, I donned shorts and lenses and hit the road early doors, picking up Pete “Monkey” on the way. He wasn’t joining me at the Thekla, however, having an appointment with hardcore band Zeke at the Exchange, so I dropped him off on the way and parked up, running into old Level 3 face Mark Carter and his lady friend in the queue! Grabbed a stage front spot, house left, on entry and chatted to Tim, a fellow blogger and photographer for the night. Openers, Swansea’s Hot Mass, were on prompt at 7.30; they sported a guitarist who was the spitting image of my mate Rich May, and kicked up an urgent, dynamic and shouty form of post-emo punk rock, with slight inflections of old school 70’s punk (a Ruts descending bassline here, a Ramones surf power chord riff there). A little unfocussed and one-dimensional for my tastes, with not much in the way of tuneage to hang a hat on, but I admired the energy and conviction.

 

The place got seriously busy thereafter and I was already working up a sweat just standing there! Prompt at 8.30, Dire Straits’ cheese-fest “Walk Of Life” chugged out of the speakers and The Menzingers took the stage, plugging in ready to launch… then vocalist/ guitarist Tom May managed to break a string on the first note! Much hilarity and comments about “ghost ships” haunting the band ensued, before their hasty re-do launched them into an incendiary version of “I Don’t Wanna Be An Asshole Anymore”, the crowd already responding in kind to the band’s obvious enthusiasm and sheer joy of playing. The clarion call to arms of “Burn After Reading” followed in short order, the place went nuts, and it was already evident that this would be one of those very special all-inclusive nights, where band and audience come together so closely you can’t see the join, and revel in the pure energy and redemptive power of unadulterated rock and roll.

 So it proved. “Bristol! It’s been awhile since we’ve played on a boat… and the first time in the hold!” announced the livewire Tom to the baying masses, before the coming of age paean “Telling Lies” switched pace from raucous joy to introspective melancholy. “Midwestern States”, one of my favourites, was sweeping and anthemic, the subsequent “The Obituaries” was a raw, ragged rabble-rousing singalong to the punkish “I will fuck this up” hook to complete a brilliant mid-set double whammy, and a later “Lookers” was yearning and dynamic in equal measure (“a goddamn blast!” according to Tom. But really, every number was a stone cold moshpit catnip gem tonight, delivered with carefree and gleeful abandon by a band loving it in such close quarters and giving it their all. So much so, in fact, that not only was I on my way to an utter drenching from my own sweat, but the stage was likewise in danger of flooding, the roadies working furiously between songs to mop up the perspiration to avoid any slippages.

 

The breathless “After The Party” concluded an utterly incendiary set, the band returning after a thorough stage mopping for oldie “Casey” and a hurtling newie “Irish” to finish, vocalist/ guitarist Greg Barnett thrusting his pick into my hand as he left the stage. And that wasn’t it; I seriously needed to catch my breath and also wait until Pete’s gig was done, so I hung out awhile, patience ultimately being rewarded with chats, pics and setlist signatures from the band. Tom in particular was a diamond; not only as buoyant and effusive in person as onstage, but he also ultimately boarded their coach to get Greg’s signature for my list, waking the man up in the process! Chap! Eventually tore myself away, collected The Monkey and drove home for midnight and a vigorous towelling down before bed. I was right, this was seriously sweaty, and also seriously superb. The distilled essence of a proper rock’n’roll gig, delivered in fantastic style by The Menzingers!

1,283 BOO RADLEYS (2 sets), Jules Reid, The Martial Arts, Reading South Street Arts Centre, Tuesday 13th June 2023

 

Hoping for a bounce back tonight, in more ways than one… following an indifferent Interpol gig last time out, mine hosts tonight are recently reformed (well, 3/4s of them, anyway…) 90’s Britpop stalwarts The Boo Radleys. Well, actually, lumping the Boos in with the Britpop crowd, an era which not only celebrated boorish misogynistic laddishness but also produced some crushingly dull landfill indie (step forward The Bluetones, Embrace and the kings of all dullards, O-bloody-a-bloody-sis), does them quite the disservice… similar to the likes of Pulp and Suede, the Boos were ploughing their own idiosyncratic furrow well before “Loaded” started sticking rock bands and union jacks on their covers, producing a work of widescreen 60’s infused psychedelic indie-pop excellence in 1993’s “Giant Steps” and taking a quantum leap forward from their difficult, more shoegazey origins in the process. And this tour promised a 30^th Anniversary full run-through of this enduring and sprawling masterpiece. It’s going to feel weird hearing this material without its’ author and sole missing original Boo, guitarist and friend-of-a-friend (hi Corin!) Martin Carr as part of the line-up, but these songs deserve to be heard, so I grabbed tix before this one ultimately sold out.

 So I hit the road for a sun-drenched drive to Reading, parking in the nearby cavernous Queens Road Car Park and hitting the venue just before 7.30 doors. A sell-out, maybe, but very quiet indeed early doors as I made my way into the very Gloucester Guildhall-like studio venue; in fact only 3 of us, myself and a pair of fellow Shiiiners, were present to greet opener The Martial Arts at 7.45! A one-man band, this; an impressively yellow trousered chap with guitar and floor fx pedals/ backing tapes. I’m usually no fan of this stuff, but his brief 60’s-inflected 3-song vignette was warm, big hearted and melodic, and seemed to answer the question as to what Teenage Fanclub would sound like if fronted by Gene Pitney! So I was kindly disposed to him.

 

Next up were the Boo Radleys! They took the stage in front of a thankfully fuller crowd and to a pastoral backing track at 8.15, then burst into the lush descending hook of equally 60’s-influenced opener “Find The Answer Within”, before black-clad vocalist Sice, resembling Frank Black’s Scouse nephew (!), scolded himself (“you can tell it’s been awhile; Sice, remember to turn your amp on!”) then gave us the heads-up on tonight’s proceedings. A brief career-spanning set first, then “Giant Steps” later… So, this opening 40 minutes touched on some post-Britpop stuff (the lazy, hazy summery vibe of “From The Bench At Belvedere”), recent post-reunion material (a funky “The Unconscious” about Sice’s psychoanalysis experiences (!) and “Full Syringe” a Fanclub-like chunky Big Star rocker with lovely 3-part harmonies, a happy feature throughout both sets) and a couple of older deep cuts to finish (the dramatic moody proto-shoegaze “Finest Kiss” and my set highlight, the juxtaposition of the splendid undulating guitar hook and dissonant verse of oldie “Lazy Day”), all played with verve and no little humour, sounding clear, splendid and well balanced, and promising much for the main set.

 A quick break before returning to my front row, house right spot for main support, Oxford-domiciled expat Scouser Jules Reid. A Gaz Brookfield-esque folk-punk solo acoustic guy complete with oft-deployed mouth organ, his set featured a poignant song about former Swindon Town player Joey Beauchamp and a lament about his wife’s ex-boyfriend’s sports car parked outside his house! A decent set which would go down well in the Tuppenny, methinks… Chatted with fellow punter and Reading local Andy afterwards about the venue – sell-out or not, the hall only ever seemed about 2/3rds full tonight! The Boos themselves were back on in fairly short order, the taped backing opening ceding to the strong-armed beat and descending hook of a loose-limbed, lugubrious “I Hang Suspended”, again sounding clear, fulsome and splendid, and we were away…

 For a sophomore album from a then relatively unknown indie band, 1993’s “Giant Steps” was ambitious in the extreme, incorporating widescreen, almost symphonic melody, Doors/ Beatles-influenced psychedelia and heavy dub rhythm, challenging but rarely over-reaching. And The Boos did it full justice tonight with an excellent run-through, one or two tiny bumps and bum notes along the way but for a first night of the tour, a well-rehearsed and surprisingly together sounding set. The dubby, change of pace “9^th And Fairchild” featured some excellent complex drum parts from Rob Ceika, “Butterfly McQueen”’s dramatic descent into discordant noise challenged Sice’s high register vocals, the man responding with a fine performance, and “Barney And Me” was irresistibly groovy, powered along by Tim Brown’s excellent bass fretwork, and got me throwing shapes from my front row spot. In lieu of “Run My Way Runway” (“it’s just noise…” complained Sice), an old B side, the widescreen Tex-Mex of “Buffalo Bill” featured mid-set before a medley featuring the stripped-back, pure McCartneyesque “Thinking Of Ways”, again coaxing a fine vocal from Sice.

 

But we were building up to one thing… “we released this twice to get it into the charts! Neither worked, so we had to write “Wake Up Fucking Boo”!” quipped Sice, before the languid dub and trumpet embellished opening of “Lazarus” suddenly burst into strident anthemic life, the soaring majesty of The Boo Radley’s finest hour easily tonight’s highlight for me. Brilliant. Sice, who’d been an affable and chatty frontman throughout, a perma-grin never far from his features, then dedicated jaunty, Beatles-esque closer “The White Noise Revisited” to Martin Carr, “who wrote the whole damn thing,” rounding off a set which felt like a celebration of a seminal and still wonderfully melodic 90’s album. That wasn’t it, though, as Sice and Tim popped out for brief chats; I told Sice my Martin Carr “litany of tunelessness” story, and he insisted on checking out the 90’s Boo Radleys setlist that Martin had referred to in that way (from their Portsmouth 1995 gig, no. 290)! Lovely bloke, and both he and Tim were complimentary of my dancing along (Sice commenting, “you looked as if you were having a great time!” my rejoinder being, “I was, but the bloke who was having a better time was you!”). I eventually tore myself away for a difficult exit out of Reading (getting stopped by every! Single! Fucking! Red! Light!) and midnight arrival home. A great one, this; expectations exceeded by some distance… a proper Boo Radley bounce back!

1,282 INTERPOL, Water From Our Eyes, Bristol O2 Academy, Thursday 1st June 2023

 

An odd one, this, from NYC post-punk guitar gloom merchants Interpol, back in my “live” crosshairs after a 5-year absence, which itself followed an absence of over 13 years… Interpol and the sadly missed Stellastarr* were easily the 2 most promising bands to emerge from a very fertile New York post-punk rock scene in the early 2000’s (Strokes? Shmrokes…), their sophomore 2004 effort “Antics” finding particular favour with me due to its’ dark, Bunnyesque atmospherics and sweeping drama, and giving me cause (after a fine set at this very venue in December 2004, gig 649) to proclaim them a truly important and influential band for this new Millennium. Their subsequent releases unfortunately proved to be anything but, to the point that I wasn’t really expecting much from their appearance on the Cure Hyde Park gig undercard in 2018 (gig 1,095). They however were the most pleasant surprise of that day, delivering a strident and sparkling performance, and I’ve at least enjoyed their subsequent couple of albums, whilst still acknowledging they’re not up to “Antics” standards. I was more intrigued than keen, therefore, when Stuart mentioned this one to me, but sorted tix anyway. Let’s see what this now-veteran band are still capable of “live”…

Stu picked me up at 6 and we hit the road for a sun-bathed drive down, joining the O2 Priority queue as it funnelled in and grabbing a barrier spot, house right. Result! Chatted away the time until openers Water From Our Eyes at 7.45. An NYC duo, they took “discordant” to a whole other level, a total random mess of taped beatbox and sheet metalwork noise, overlaid with shards of guitar and monotone female vocals, as if “Metal Machine Music”-era Lou Reed and early Laurie Anderson had actually had a kid, although nowhere near as cool as that sounds… Just as I was about to file them with the likes of Merz, Th’ Faith Healers and Russian Caravan as truly awful supports, they actually played a decent song, Summery, lilting and a little throwaway but still a zillion times better than before, and their subsequent material was more coherent, recalling the muddled moroseness of Viet Cong. It still felt less of a set, more an experimental art installation; they’re no doubt deeply hip in NYC art circles but, a better ending aside, I was glad when they were done!

A more difficult than expected return from a comfort break still saw me back in position for 9: a busy one, this, and a surprisingly young crowd… Interpol then took the stage to a mysterious white backlit strobe, however their insular and claustrophobic opener “Toni” was unfortunately dominated from the off by overpowering growling bass, with vocalist Paul Banks’ voice utterly submerged and indecipherable in the mix. Uh oh… Oldie “Obstacle 1” was an utter mess, the mix muddled and still bass-dominated, an early “Narc”’s staccato guitar riffery then overpowered the sound, the stripped-back, dubby mid-section the only time the mix sounded balanced, and “C’Mere” honestly sounded to me as if Banks and fellow guitarist Daniel Kessler were playing different songs, one guitar pattern actually sounding rather off-key too…

 

It took until Evil”, 8^th (!) number in, for the sound to even approach a balanced mix, its’ seething urgency and dynamic building chorus comfortably the set highlight, with Banks’ haunting, robotic vocals thankfully a little more audible, if still way too low in the mix. “If they’d got that wrong, I’d have just gone into the toilet to cry for the rest of the set,” I remarked to Stu afterwards! Thereafter things thankfully improved, with “All The Rage Back Home” a bombastic hurtling car chase of a song, the less overtly guitar-heavy “Take You On A Cruise” clear and balanced, and the strident punkish catapult twang of “Roland” highlights amongst some indifferent and morose bedfellows. The taut elasticity and bleak staccato pinprick guitar of “PDA” ended a proper Curate’s Egg of a set, the sound variable at best (and utter shite at worst), the band aloof and taciturn (Banks’ one comment about Bristol being beautiful – “I had a lovely day [here]” – notwithstanding).

 A 3 song encore featuring the haunting build of “Lights” to a widescreen wall of sound which thankfully stayed just the right side of discordant, a plaintive and rather lovely actually “No I In Threesome”, and closer “Slow Hands” which again sadly suffered from the mix, rounded off proceedings. Persistence paid off with the keyboard player’s list, then Stu and I hit the road debating this performance. As I said, an odd one, this, and a tough one to write up too. Like the girl with the curl, when this set was good (e.g. “Evil”, “Roland” and “No I In Threesome”) it was absolutely splendid, but when it was bad (most of the first 7 numbers, and bits and bobs thereafter sadly) it was very poor, either bass or guitar dominated, the sound unbalanced and with Paul Banks’ vocals either too quiet or utterly absent throughout. I’d so hoped for better from Interpol tonight, but after this performance, don’t be surprised if they’re off my gig radar for another 5 years or more…