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The tale of three reviewers, one band and a bottle of Incendiary fizz.
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The tale of three reviewers, one band and a bottle of Incendiary fizz.
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With the air thick with hungry patrons waiting to get a taste of the newly crowned saviours of indie-rock, Incendiary entered the foyer of the majestic Paradiso. In hand, a bottle of Champagne and a black hat both on their way into the hands of the unsuspecting band. As the moments passed, the beads of sweat embodied themselves on the newly unfrozen bottle as the team burrowed their way through the maze that is the newly finished ‘backstage’ area. Finally, they charged into the room to greet their heroes come home. The time had come; the halls echoed the accented baritone of lead singer Alex Kapranicos: “Richard! How the hell are you mate?!” Yes, this was a reunion, between band and obsessive fan….
Yet, I digress, let’s take you back now to the dreary days of January. We here at Incendiary were casually glancing the pages of a wide variety of music journals, casually peeking at Q, snickering at NME, passing a batted and hung head at OOR, it was then we reached Mojo…
…and belly laughed for a day as we recognised our dear other wordly Incendiary artist being misquoted in a “reputable” magazine.. Oh! Journalism.. Franz Ferdinand couldn’t have. We knew that much. Yes, our artist in question did have in his family vaults a picture of the original Archduke, but signed Mussolini pictures? What the hell did Mojo think people do at Franz Ferdinand backstage soirees? Walk around in jodphurs watching Lenni Riefenstahl movies? Back stage, pained noises were made over the distribution of champagne. Conciliatory words were offered. Artist and favourite band resumed polite cultured conversation, (kids, they are THAT cultured, not manufactured). But, we digress. Let bones lie. Let us now contemplate the fact that Franz Ferdinand, in their present form, have everyone in thrall. Even wimpy & grumpy NME journalists. Even sassy Music Meat-Grinder Machine executives. Why? Cos they rock, in the style that only The Teardrop Explodes rocked, or Talking Heads, or early Roxy, or loads of other legendary bands. They are.. well, fucking brilliant, they know it, & we know it: even from the way they ENTER and TAKE the stage, Shakesperean fashion…
…parading around as if this were the Globe. Look toward yonder elevated stage and hark, at once, in raucous cheer. The new Scottish Gentry come forth and with sword of song wiltst split thee from nave to chaps. If you aren’t too careful, that is.
To look at, Franz Ferdinand are the bastard sons of Jarvis Cocker. They look like pipe cleaners with hair and their fashion sense is splendidly tight fitting and retro. You wouldn’t find us here at Incendiary wandering around a concert hall wearing a Doctor Who scarf and a man bag, oh no – although certain members of our clan save a worrying love for the cravat! But here, where image is all important, style matters, and despite a tendency to wear some of the most evil patterns this side of paisley Franz Ferdinand ooze style. And confidence. And cleverness.
You get the impression that their back stage rider would contain a vintage Chardonnay, a sewing kit and the works of Franz Kafka rather than the crate of lager, two packets of crisps and bag of white powder you’d expect to find in the hands of some Glaswegian youths. However, like Jarvis, this band are undeniably cool. In fact guitar player Nicholas McCarthy is so cool he manages to look like both Labour Party nuisance Peter Mandelson and Wales ‘s greatest missing icon Richey James at the same time, which is just freakishly obscene. Singer Alexander has the most foppish haircut imaginable but pulls it off in a Neil Hannon kind of way and drummer boy Paul even wears a pencil moustache well enough for you not to laugh at the pretentiousness of it! Bass player Robert looks the most reserved of the group – but when he starts to strut on stage you see why he’s here and why he’s needed. You see Franz Ferdinand have an aura around them that suggests that, despite the misfits of society appearance they are in fact very big and very clever. And that is a dangerous and fantastic combination.
They certainly know how to put on a show. The band pelt through their set with a force and intensity that makes you think perhaps they need to get out of here quick. Perhaps they all need the toilet or something? The whole set is electrifying. In the space of an hour the Paradiso crowd are turned from static, chatting tall people discussing the merits of Phil Collins (?) into a big sweaty gyrating mess screaming “I drink Champagne with Salmon!” in various European languages, which is no mean feat I can tell you.
How they do this is through the power of their tunes, surely the most danceable guitar music on the market right now and through the sheer audacity of their posturing. Taking the mantle from Jarvis this band take posing to new heights on stage – each of them jerking back and forth with metronomic timing and somehow looking ubercool in the process. How they mange to make it work is anybody’s guess? It shouldn’t but somehow it does. This band have a brain and they’re not afraid to use it. Their songs are weapons of mass dancefloor instruction (shoot me now!) and they will take over the World. At least that’s the impression we’re left with as they start jizzing that bottle of Incendiary fizz all over the front row at the end of this truly magnificent show. What did they play you ask? Everything, and more. They even let some kid play Joss Stone’s drum kit, which was a nice touch. All you need to know is that you really should have been there. Jump on the bandwagon as quick as you can (champagne and salmon not provided) – the revolution has come!
Words: Jon Dekel, Richard Foster and Damian Leslie
Illustrations : Richard Foster