Live Review: Long Blondes at London Astoria - 20th February 2007

Author: Tom Mitchell

'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.