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Admittedly our senses had been numbed somewhat already,
with the arrival of 24 giddy white-robed happy-fanatics
to these shores a year or so ago. But don’t let a second-past-the-post-placing
fool you into putting them into second place. Maybe
such pre-empting was a good thing anyway. It means that
rather than being knocked out cold tonight, we merely
remain conscious and utterly utterly flabbergasted.
A display of downright melodic flamboyance undresses
itself in front of our widening eyes. Literally. We’re
not sure how to respond exactly. Except for a wide smile,
of course. The Hidden Cameras, if you’re not
already more than familiar, have just released an album
which is so direct in its simplicity, so distinct in
its emotion, so brisk with its tune, so deep, so complete,
that hugging strangers while listening to its harmonious
tones on your walkman will become a real danger. It’s
called ‘The Smell of Our Own’ and you should have one
as your very own.
But, as with the Polyphonic Spree, there’s more.
Much more in this case. And for their first UK headline
show (following a stripped down and reportedly about
face support run with The Sleepy Jackson) they’ve
brought the much more. The full ensemble, or as near
as is possible in a constant state of flux. Introductions
come by way of a happy-clappy musical procession of
about 8 or 9 weaving their way through the crowd towards
the stage from the bar. It’s half first-day-of-spring-commune
(the folk ditty, the strumming guitars, the fiddle,
the grinning inanity), half last-orders on fancy dress
night at The Good Mixer (the jumpers, the specs, the
man with the mask looking like a cross between Nikki
Sixx, Ziggy Stardust and #6 from Slipknot).
It’s refreshingly unfashionable and, above all, welcoming.
Who would have thought we were just talking straightforward
indie here?
As a collective (the full onstage compliment coming
in at roughly 16) they look both indistinct and one
in the same, like they’ve just been sicked up, there
and then (naturally remaining fragrant and sweet). So
many expressions, shapes, intensities, personalities,
drawn together into an amorphous whole, with no obvious
shared interest aside from a common spirit. And it’s
exactly the kind of thing that gives you heart, confirming
this music lark you invest so much in can and does amount
to more than your fact-stretched bubble fantasies. But
if it is one amorphous harmonic whole, its heart belongs
to one man.
That man being Joel Gibb, songwriter and tribe leader.
He’s rather ordinary, the sort that wouldn’t look out
of place behind a counter in a bank, sheepish, orderly,
respecting enforced formalities. And though his wavering,
true and height-seeking voice does wobble during the
stripped-bare opening segment of the show, on ‘Golden
Streams’ and prickly current single ‘A Miracle’, by
the time support band Royal City’s drummer is putting
an engine under the collective on the evangelistic ‘Breathe
On It’ he’s as solid as the rock he speaks of so fondly
in ‘The Man That I Am With My Man’.
What does work with the multi-layered fragility that
forms their foundation is amazing b-side ‘We Oh We’,
buried beneath the gig’s final peak, dipping, ticking
over and then fluttering magnificently. But Belle and
Sebastian crushing double, ‘Ban Marriage’ and ‘Smells
Like Happiness’, is just pure, maddening, full-throttled
celebration. The two balaclava-ed dancers end up flexing
insanely in their y-fronts, spare instrumentalists are
touching their toes and leaping up again, hedonistic
smiles wallpaper the stage. They come back 30 minutes
over curfew and continue to play, undiminished with
the house lights up. It’s like being in the ‘Shiny Happy
People’ video for 80 long joyous minutes, without wanting
to strangle anyone. And thus, ace.
Relevant sites:
www.musicismyboyfriend.com 
James Berry for Crud Magazine© 2003
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