Stage-centre there’s a man wearing a smile the size of the
Astoria’s incongruous, space-age sound desk eyesore, and twice as shiny. This
man isn’t Johnny Borrell, because this man isn’t too cool for such emotional niceties.
No, this man is full of soul and so genuinely ice-frickin-cold he can’t help but
beam, widely. It’s out of his hands. His facial state can be attributed to the
kaleidoscopic mesh of laced-up-tight new wave genre-hopping which ricochets all
around him too. We’re as sure of that as we are of the fact that they’re second
only to TV On The Radio at the top of this year’s new discovery list. This man
is Kele Okereke, and he and Bloc Party come close to swallowing the evening
whole and strutting off with a belly full. But it has not been stage-directed
as thus, so Razorlight haven’t had their chances dashed as it may have
seemed for 30 dazzling, distracting minutes. Don’t get us wrong, they’ve really
earned this – a debut record overloaded with neat flat-pack classics and one mighty
Glasto appearance saw to that, their pretensions and our presumptions meeting
head on, ours hobbling off deflated and bruised before the end of round one. In
London alone between now and mid-October they’ll have done the Astoria twice and
tucked a date at Brixton Academy in between. All are sold out. That’s like 10,000
tickets or something, it’s hardly a secret now. But still, nothing is left to
chance here, everything has to be perfect, everything has to have a right place.
Just let’s not be under the impression that spontaneity makes more than a fleeting
entrance. It looks like the Princess Di Memorial Fund is sponsoring the
drum riser, mixed carnations spread excessively in a way that also reminds us
of the Oasis’ ‘Don’t Look Back In Anger’ single cover shot, but not so much that
we’re aggravated by it. The point they’re making is that they’ve made the effort
and you should expect a little something more, something special, something maybe
a bit classy tonight. Is that a grand piano we see covertly parked behind the
bass amp? Johnny sprints on as the drums spark up a fiery ‘Rock ‘N’ Roll Lies’,
rebounding off imaginary walls, and from thereon in he scarcely stops. Trying
too hard? You bet. You can see it in the way he flinches when he thinks he’s been
static for too long, the way he holds himself like life’s an eternal Face photoshoot.
It ain’t choreography, but then it’s not far off. But just look at the fruits
such behaviour. Every song played, and that includes every last song off the album
and a few that aren’t, sounds like a Top 10 single, a chemical reaction with words
and sound. And through the virtual choreography, instinctive or otherwise, push
some truly thrilling moments. Elasticating around the stage in skinny light-blue
drainpipe jeans and Daz-white trainers he looks like a young mod Iggy Pop who’s
just 5 minutes since lost his virginity. The lyrics to ‘Which Way Is Out?’
bundle off his tongue like a preacher saving a street drunk from a burning house
and ‘In The City’ is so stocked full of false endings, excitement and forays into
the audience you feel it’s close to spontaneously combusting itself. It goes all
a bit Elton John in the encore at the aforementioned grand piano, with a quiet
‘Fall, Fall, Fall’ ebbing beautifully above the hubbub. But if you only had him
down as a scrappy kid jabbing at his guitar and getting lucky in an easily pleased
post-Strokes world, this must surely reveal him out as one of this country’s most
exciting songwriters. Though he could certainly learn some modesty, he’s probably
got it in him to do a Costello. And he might not crack a smile himself, but that
doesn’t matter, everyone else is. Makes you wonder about all those second chances
you gave The Libertines. Relevant sites:
http://www.blocparty.com
http://www.razorlight.co.uk
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2004©
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