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There are accepted callings in life for men who look
quite this nondescript. Too aged and acne-free to be
serving you fries, more likely to be clearing your ashtray
and picking up that discarded pork-scratchings wrapper,
or leading a pack of Scouts on a wet weekend orienteering
expedition in Wiltshire. And probably still living at
home with mum. So why, then, is a frenzied indie fan
across the room from us desperately shrieking “Keep
going! Don’t stop!” at four such examples of said man?
The principal reason is that the final chimes of a blisteringly
pristine slice of on-the-edge American guitar pop called
‘So Says I’ have just, fractions of a second earlier,
finished tumbling ecstatically from nearby speakers.
The broader explanation is that The Shins have pierced
through the mould and shown that, as with life, there’s
so much more in store if you’d only turn them inside
out. Like the Go-Betweens before them and more recently
The Hidden Cameras they’ve put a strong heart in much
plainer clothes to give you something you can rely on
in the first instance and fall in love with later on.
“Our chords are all tied in knots now,” remarks frontman
James Mercer, possibly in response, and you know what
he means. “We need someone to untangle us”.
Their albums, especially the celebrated debut ‘Oh, Inverted
World’, are built on fragile acoustic wisps and soaring,
snaking melodies. So even though the forthcoming ‘Chutes
Too Narrow’ album carries enough in the way of hooks
under its overcoat to be detained indefinitely at border
control, the furious damning urgency with which they
perform is unexpected, to say the least. Set opener
‘Kissing the Lipless’ in this context is the literal
sound of Brian Wilson being sawn in two with a generator-fed
jig-saw. And there are moments when the veins in James
Mercer’s tensed neck could be plucked like a harp. Even
some of their dreamiest moments, ‘New Slang’ and ‘Young
Pilgrim’, have a focus that could slice the softest
skin. It’s a truly thrilling precision.
Though the little hand strikes 11 and big one rotates
past the top of the clock, signalling that in the eyes
of the law the time to cease enjoying yourself is nigh,
the frenzied fan’s request is heeded and indeed they
don’t stop. Not for another 20 minutes, or until the
majority of their two albums’ worth of material is exhausted.
And for that they earn themselves one hell of a glow
from the solidly packed room. It has been their virgin
date on British soil (or for that matter anywhere outside
the United States) and in under 90 minutes they prove
themselves uber-worthy of the large cult following they
have already established over there, and sow further
seeds of infamy with us. Special just about covers it.
Relvant Sites
www.subpop.com/bands/shins/
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2004©
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