“The sort of stuff that a young XTC alluded to but never got thanked for and a potential that could only have been reached if Pulp and The Stranglers had hit it off and had children. ”
“The sort of stuff that a young XTC alluded to but never got thanked for and a potential that could only have been reached if Pulp and The Stranglers had hit it off and had children. “
The first thing I notice about Sons and Daughters, is that bass/mandolin player Ailidh Lennon looks just like our old drummer Nikki, had she shared a father with Björk, but as you’ve probably never met Björk, that won’t help you much. She also looks as if she’s waiting for a bus for the majority of their half hour slot. Her disinterested demeanour is, however, in stark contrast to her efforts.
Sons and Daughters growl and pound. Drummer David Gow drives the whole thing along and gives the rest of the band the freedom to thrash, wait for busses or bang out spastic 1 chord keyboards, whatever takes their fancy and what takes their fancy also takes mine. Not only do they thrum along with glorious monotony but they bugger about with the rhythm and timing of essentially simple songs to reach a higher level. “Johnny Cash”, the new single and “Blood” are two tremendous songs. I’m not usually entirely comfortable with a male/female vocal thing but this hits the spot and I get the feeling that they are playing within themselves. There is more to come from Sons and Daughters and a support to the support slot doesn’t really do them justice.
I feared for the Kills as they walked out. One lassie, one bloke, one guitar and a drum loop against several thousand people in ‘The Black Hole Music Hall’. The Kills are, no doubt, used to being outnumbered, but from the first deafening guitar crunch to the last they were not going to be ignored. The curiously named Hotel and his sound technician did a pretty good job of turning a simple electric guitar into a weapon so loud and enormous that Tony Blair was probably on the phone to George asking whether he should declare war or not.
I was vibrating and with some relief I realised that everyone else was too. I couldn’t light my tab for the wind created by the full on tonal assault. One lassie, one bloke, one guitar and a drum loop. Nice.
Grubby, dirty, loud, jagged blues is the core of The Kills sound. The drum loop kicks out a steroid lo-fi beat. Hotel scrapes, yells and thrashes while VV writhes and seduces with arrogant screams and hoarse whispers. They are foul-mouthed, provocative and repetitive, and that’s not the only reason that they’re a great band to watch.
Grubby, dirty, loud, jagged sensuality is the core of The Kills onstage presence. Everything truly comes together when they come together, face to face, crotch to crotch, phallic guitar thrusting and scything with the grinding music. You are unlikely to see a more compelling, electric and intimate performance by two fully-clothed people this year.
I was ready. Everyone I could see was ready.
The twanging riff and hi-hats of Michael festered and spat. Bass…… thud, thud, thud….. “This is where I’ll be / so heavenly / so come and dance with me Michael”.
Couldn’t have said it better myself.
Franz Ferdinand are full of the energy that only exists in young bands. The sort of energy that drove The Undertones or The Smiths. One astonishing album in the bag, touring more or less non-stop for over a year. Despite their relatively shallow pool of songs, nearly everything they do belongs in the deep end.
Let’s not beat around the bush now. This is 3 minute pop. Not stupid pop, not throw away pop. Keep pop. Hold on to, sing along to, jump around to, pop. “Auf Achse”, “Jacqueline”, “Tell Her Tonight”, anything off the album gets a near biblical 3000 man bounce. “Take Me Out” even raises the galleries in this cavernous, cubic, coffin of a venue. Even for the new songs, surely hardly anyone here knows them, but they still get a reception like the Sticky Bun Man arriving in Eritrea.
There are no stuffy, arty solos, only sharp hooks and trip-wire lyrics to ensnare the listener. After all “Words are poison darts of pleasure”. Never half-hearted, just full, thick, thoughtful, thumping guitar pop. The sort of stuff that a young XTC alluded to but never got thanked for and a potential that could only have been reached if Pulp and The Stranglers had hit it off and had children.
Every jagged guitar twang is mimicked and magnified by the multitude. The hand claps reach the very back during “40′” and I wonder if there’s a moment when you know you’ve made it? I’m sure there is and I’m sure Franz Ferdinand have had that moment. If their second album is even in the same postcode as the first then they’re on to a winner.
Approaching the end of the gig I suspect that my eardrum has burst. The blame gets fairly equally apportioned between the 3 bands on show and I chew half a page of my notebook to make an earplug. I retire, bleeding, to the dancing, clapping gallery for “Matinee” and realise how tiny Franz Ferdinand have become. 4 flailing tiny men furiously whipping everyone in to a frenzy. On-stage tinyness is, of course, a sign of bigness in the world of rock n’ roll. “Ich heisse super fantastisch”.
The four wee lads go on to give us a 4 song encore culminating in the infectious and addictive “This Fire”……………………………Sticky Buns anyone?
PS. I put the album on in the house the other day and my 3 year old daughter said, “Ohhh, thank you Daddy!” She knows what she’s talking about and I, for one glorious moment, became living proof that your parents aren’t necessarily wankers all the time.
PPS. I also went back stage and got autographs to bribe my daughter with in 11 years time and I, for one glorious moment, became living proof that your parents probably are wankers after all.
Words : MONO
Photographs : Damian Leslie