'I dunno. Watching in the Astoria, I thought 'cloying'. I thought 'Hello. There's something cloying about The Long Blondes.' And when I went home, I looked 'cloying' up in the dictionary to check if I were right. 'To cause distaste or disgust by supplying with too much of something originally pleasant, especially something rich or sweet; surfeit', it said.
And, goddammit, I think I was right.
Take the band's hair. Much has been made of lead singer Kate Jackson's glam look. And her barnet was looking supermodel-lovely on Monday night. A bit like Karen O's. All perfectly moulded fringe and glossy sheen. Dressed in shorts, tasty blouse and neck scarf (she was only missing a beret for full-on pretentious-art-student-look), she'd thrust out a hip and point up to the lighting rig, wiggle about, and still the hair would return to its original perfection. Quite amazing.
Fair enough, you might say, why can’t a girl take pride in her locks? But each one of the four members possessed interesting cuts: the bassist (accompanied by a wonderfully static cool/bored expression throughout) plucked with her Lego hair atop; the male guitarist’s pouted with a Rod Stewart head. The cutesy bow of the female guitarist and the solid fuzz of the drummer’s must have taken ages to position and groom so …. trendily.
I might be labouring the point about the hair, but it's symbolic of a greater monster. However much I enjoyed jumping about with the rest of the crowd to 'Lust in the Movies' (and I did), the Blonde's shtick, the whole package, is almost scarily considered, as if designed by some Sheffield Ministry of Cool. Take 'You Could Have Both'. It's a great song. Jackson manages to whine, sing and breathe its lyrics, often all at once. The new wave guitars manage to spread the contagion of dance to the whole Astoria. Great. But its lyrics check both Morrissey and Scott Walker and 'C C Baxter in Wilder's Apartment'. And the deliberate nature of this, a kind of cultural tick box exercise, turned my lager sour. It's the pickle in the proverbial burger.
The stage patter too. Before 'Once and Never Again' ("19? You're only 19 for God's sake! You don't need a boyfriend!'- sanctimonious big sis advice as annoying as a wet sock), Jackson purred 'anyone here 14? 15? 16? 17? 18? Well... this is for the nineteen year olds!' and launched into the number. Hmmm, I thought, Hmmm. How smug are you, young lady?
But, at moments, I did forget my prejudice. It may have been the £3.30 Red Stripe surging through my brain (again), but when 'Swallow Tattoo' was flung from the stage, I smiled and nodded my head and didn't mind even when the wash of teenagers exploded in stupid dance all about me. It's a great song. That urgent thrust of rhythm guitar is married beautifully to the desperate lyrics concerned with a dodgy tattoo. The song opens with 'Give me a good film noir and a bottle of gin, I'll be happy just to stay inside'. Yeah, great, and suddenly it's Debbie Harry on stage, singing the literate and witty (witerate?) words of our mate Jarvis or Morrissey. Trendy cultural references aren't crow-barred in and the song is all the better for it. I'm ignoring the echo of Moz's track 'A Swallow On My Neck' to make my argument neater. And the way Kate Jackson sang 'goodbye happiness, I hardly knew you' made not only my hair stand on end, I can tell you. It was as sultry as Marlene Dietrich smoking from a cigarette holder in your darkened bedroom (with a bit of mood lighting too).
And then I noticed The Long Blonde's sign. A kind of black and white ironic tribute to Tom Cruise's Cocktail logo, it was, and sunk under PURPLE lighting. Maybe it's because I don't read the NME and I don't understand (and even though 'only' mid-twenties, I was easily in the top quarter of age range down Astoria), but soon resentment at the group's calculated cool was jumping about my tummy once again.
The Brakes were the main support act and The Long Blondes could allow the influence of this supergroup (formed from members of British Sea Power, Electric Soft Parade and The Tenderfoot) to pervade future songwriting. The boys performed a spunky session with a few songs lasting less than thirty seconds. They reminded me of the Pixies - roaring guitars, bald lead singer, and impenetrable lyrics. I'm a sucker for a bit of Frank Black (and there's enough of him, alright), so they went down well. The Long Blondes could do with a bit more Brakey fun - rock for rock’s sake - and a bit less desire to be a better dressed Pulp.
And so I left the Astoria confused. (And not for the first time.) The Long Blondes do produce an effective line in new-wave rock with witerate lyrics. But can I ever find love for such a perfectly dressed/haired/referencing band? Can I ever really enjoy a group that have performed in Selfridges?
I'm not sure I can. It's all a bit too much. It's all a bit too... cloying.
26 February 2007
Live Review: Long Blondes at London Astoria - 20th February 2007
19 February 2007
Live Review: Jarvis at London Astoria - 17th February 2007
'The Judie Dench of indie rock', says Jarvis, spitting the words out with disgust. "I'm not a middle-aged woman. I might be middle-aged. But I'm not a woman." And his angular body contorts as he strokes his flat chest to illustrate his lack of breasts.
Midway through his set at the Astoria, Jarvis found time to criticise The Daily Telegraph's review of a recent gig. And it was the comparison that offended. Outraged, was Jarv. And I could see why. Dame Dench doesn't spend much of Notes From A Scandal jumping about the frame with the abandon of a cider-drinking teenager. And when onstage at the National, Judy's bum doesn't provoke caterwauling. Jarvis's did.
Still, like Judy, our Jarvis has been around ever since I remember being alive and his impact has been such that even my Dad (number of albums owned - 1 - Dark Side of the Moon on cracked vinyl) was able to offer some comments. 'Northern Guy - showed off his bum, right?' said my Dad. 'Is he still going?'
The years have flashed by in an instant; it's ten of them since his Brit Awards stagecrash bumshow (he was nominated this year, but lost out to James Morrison - 'I was robbed', he said). But the passing of time hasn't rotten his caustic wit, nor his ability to polish off a hummable tune. Saturday's set was kicked off by 'Fat Children' - a frantic couple of minutes of punk guitar attack, sung with a palpable relish by Jarvis as he karate-chopped his way about stage - a bit like Vegas Elvis, but thinner and with longer hands. And these hands are still quite magical. It may have been the Red Stripe, but many a time I caught myself staring at their cutting of air.
'Black Magic' was another beauty. Its stop-start avalanche of drum/keyboard/guitar is well suited to live performance, and far more entrancing than listening to the album in your lounge as you stare at the internet. T-Rex-esque, it was, with a raucous bass that wobbled your eyeballs. Fab. And it even pricked my rhythmic swaying into a semi-dance.
Jarvis is an entertainer and he operates in the immediate. In 'Tonight' he instructs the listener to seize the day. This sentiment falling out of the lips of any other entertainer might seem trite. But not with Jarvis. Instead of frowning, I drank more Red Stripe to honour him.
There was almost as much joy to be had listening to his banter between songs as the music itself. Which sounds as if to say the music was rubbish, but it wasn't. Jarvis was just dead funny. From his opening gag about Sophie Ellis Baxter being found dead in a French flat (It was murder on Zidane's floor) to his awarding the crowd 'most inappropriate timing of balloon release', he had the crowd (strangely mixed between tubby thirty-year olds with interesting glasses and teeny NME readers) hooting. And I'm sure not many other entertainers would have responded with such good grace to the aforementioned escape of balloons the melancholic 'I Will Kill Again', but Jarv did. He even sat during this song, so it must be a sad one.
The ex-Relaxed Muscle man is better when avoiding such balladry, however. This was highlighted by the final encore of 'Paranoid' by Black Sabbath. It was sung with the venom of a rock-n-roller who'd been there, bought the t-shirt, and flashed the bum-bum. The was an appropriately rocking gesture with which to finish the gig.
I left found myself on Charing Cross Road, not thinking about the disappointing sub-Kate Bush support act Bat for Lashes, but wondering aloud when Cocker's next gig might be. My final words to my friend were that I wasn't gay, but Jarvis was lovely and delightful.
Buy his album. Go see him. He's back..
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