|
Two songs in and we’re on the verge of shrieking “SELL
OUTS!” and calling the credibility cops on our mobile
(sadly though we fear we may have trouble getting through
and don’t much fancy being left in an automated queue).
‘Six Barrel Shotgun’ was all well and good, as ripping
a rock n roll show opener as you could reasonably expect
from the gothic-fringe rockers – the volume, the twitchy
shoegazing moves, the bold bold lights, the atmosphere
(check, check, check, fuckin’ check). Yeah! But then
as ‘Stop’ powers up with its bass-line – like most of
theirs – recently exhumed from the murky depths, big
screen projections jizz themselves up onto the mammoth
backdrop as an added dimension. Projections!? Quite,
and of speed-dials and motorcycles no less. We remember
back to when the ever basic lights, like the figures
stumbling with semi-purpose in front of them, couldn’t
quite muster reaching maximum capacity and settled instead
for just picking out striking silhouettes and merging
broodingly from one subtle illumination to the next.
Which as it happens worked beautifully. They’ve even
gone and added a couple more colours to the rig now,
on top of their staple red and white. So it’s hardly
a Jean-Michele Jarr laser spectacular, but comparatively
it’s more hi-fi than they once looked capable of becoming.
In reality that’s an inevitable, subtle consequence
of the commercial ladder that they’ve found themselves
climbing steadily, and you could say more cautiously
than expected given the OTT overdriven fervour with
which some quarters of the press have stalked them.
But put this picture next to the emerging shot of two
years ago and there are some certain spot-the-difference
style circles on the 2003 page. You can practically
taste the coherence tonight, and indeed the confidence.
Nick Jago has acquainted himself with the art of timing,
more or less, when before he only just seemed on the
same page as the other two. Which was really the thrill.
Initially attending a BRMC gig was like partaking in
a collective bong session, the edges all smoothed out,
inaccuracies being no distraction, individual songs
weren’t so much the focus and even when they were they’d
chase off towards different destinations, but there
would always be the constant hit. These days they seem
to be off whatever sauce they were on, which for the
experience means we are too. But fuck whatever concerns
that brings, right now they’re playing ‘White Palms’
and every cubic inch of air in this theatrical cavern
is detonated and shaken with a shocking, dense intensity.
They’ve always been capable of that, but now the horsepower
is at max throttle. Where they ambled in fifth gear
previously it’s like they’ve caught up with themselves
and rammed the pace through the roof. Even inanimate
Peter Hayes, who’s straggly fringe has seemed in the
past like a construct for his personal defence, to remove
the need to face up to anything in front of him, strides
to the lip of the stage midway though ‘Whatever Happened
To My Rock N Roll’ and hurls both arms in the air, before
twisting himself backwards to reach the microphone and
maintain the celebratory call to arms. Perhaps with
his new found clarity he’s finally found it. Robert
Turner continues to establish himself as one of the
most inspirational bass players on the planet, brutally
contorting his slung guitar through the even-more-Sisters-of-Mercy-than-on-record
‘Rise & Fall’, ‘Shade Of Blue’, Heart & Soul’ and a
melancholy new one, really every bit as rousing as Peter
Hook at his peak. The second album may have marked them
out as more regular then they originally appeared, shifting
the terms of engagement. But in this arena alone they
do take them on, and win. No prisoners taken. No doubts.
Anything else thrown into the mix by circumstances should
be ignored and viewed as no more than a distraction.
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2003©
 |
|
| |
| |
