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It begins with a grainy projection of a very British,
quasi-humourous WWII film clip and it ends 75 minutes
hence with a stuffed heron beak-butting a cymbal in
the midst of absolute carnage. The moments in-between
are bridged by a living slideshow, a pollination of
both extremes and more, metaphorically beaming stark
emotional Polaroids onto and over the heads of a captive
audience; quaint picturesque snapshots of calm, seething
explosions, wide confused eyes, seriously furrowed brows,
ginger-ale grins. Atmospherically it’s somewhere between
The Battle of the Somme, ‘Killing Moon’ and The Famous
Five Go Down To the Sea. Whichever way you look at it,
it’s an star(t)ling victory.
 The
four on stage now (or five, including the reserve cadet
tinkering about in the corner and generally filling
space), with a look more of bloody necessity than simple
enjoyment claiming their gaze, are about to release
one of the undisputed records of the year with their
debut ‘The Decline of British Sea Power’ (Rough
Trade). And though an album alone doth not necessarily
make a band, a mere fleeting glance in their direction
(not that fleeting glances are exactly an option) will
tell you that they are far from ordinary, very possibly
extraordinary.
They approach their stuffed bird, fresh branch and leafy
twig laden stage like schoolboys ending their assent
to the lip of a rollercoaster, their half-smiles failing
to mask the knowledge of what lies ahead and the blinding
determination and unswerving concentration needed to
get through it. They wear uniform navy whites and an
assortment of appropriate headgear, somehow without
looking at all in need of a quirk. Even those generically
close to them on UK guitar pop’s leftermost edge, Clinic
for instance, look superficially appendaged with their
fancy dress garb, comparatively at least. You have to
understand that novelty doesn’t even go skin deep. To
you and I this might all seem like novelty, but their
minds genuinely appear like the wandering catacombs
the stage set up hints at.
Creeping into musical view with ‘Heavenly Waters’, a
Mogwai / Flaming Lips instrumental hybrid set
to black and white art-house projections of a lonely
naked dance, it’s like time itself is slowing down to
find its optimum appreciative speed. It finds them creaking
slowly into being, untrusting postures and thousand
yard stares remaining, as the music builds and splinters,
as is right. Then ‘Fear of Drowning’, with its bags-beneath-the-eyes
rolling bassline, gasping vocals and unoppressive jabbing
guitars, is lush like Bunnymen and sometimes
cutting like Pixies. A marriage they get impressive
mileage from.
Noble creams noises from his guitar like a serial killer,
methodically and precisely. There seem to be a thousand
crazed thoughts buzzing through Hamilton’s eyes. Yan
paces like a suspiciously quiet stowaway lunatic. His
voice sounds like two cold hands cupping something delicate,
precious and slightly hot to the touch and is wise beyond
its years in that you believe or crave to understand
everything it says. When all this comes together and
careers out through the perimeter fence of mediocrity
– like on the furious, godly ‘The Spirit of St Louis’
into the nightmare sequence of ‘Apologies To Insect
Life’ and the brimming over-generosity of ‘Carrion’
– you get that oh-so-rare feeling that everything you’ve
already experienced has been irrelevant.
The British Sea Power we see tonight is very
much a matured character. Live experiences (as opposed
to their recorded output) used to be like a fumbled
farewell at a crowded port, despite the intentions.
These days they’ve been and done it all, and returned
home to tell their tales like heroes. All of them, singer
Yan in particular, are guilty of rarely cutting
loose, staying steadfast and almost emotionless (stunning
considering what they’re producing) in their performance,
but it’s this regimentation that defines them.
Stretched and restless album climax ‘Lately’, and thus
set closer, drifts almost anonymously in the first instance,
like Bowie singing a lullaby by starlight. That
is until numerous drummers are ushered on and the cracks
finally start showing in their composure. Military headwear
is swapped, drums are beaten inside out with whatever
comes to hand, foliage is worn, sprouting out of any
clothed cranny, shoulders are leapt on, faces flattened
against guitars without consent, wildlife is hurled,
there is screaming, a fat man in camouflage and a tin
helmet walks through the crowd holding an owl aloft
before scuffling with Noble. There is all this and more.
White noise and liberation. It’s the sea cadet marching
band deprived of rations for 5 days and under demonic
possession. Of course it’s not over until the heron
makes a din, and then there is silence. Everything you’ve
already experienced could very well have been irrelevant.
Relevant sites:
www.britishseapower.co.uk/ 
James Berry for Crud Magazine© 2003
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