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“Why are there lots of trees on the stage?” enquires
a naďve, wide-eyed teen Strokesee to our right, done
up to the nines (or at least sevens, maybe even eights,
for effort at least) in Topshop chic for the express
purpose of getting served tepid, flat, overpriced liquid
refreshments from the factory line ‘bar’ next door.
“I’m coming here for Travis too!!” squeals she as a
follow up, almost squeezing her vodka and coke out of
its flimsy plastic receptacle. You’ll find out what
the trees are for young one, all in good time, all in
good time.
For tonight is the zenith of what rash conspiracy theorists
such as ourselves might like to title British Sea
Power’s Big Plan. It could even stretch back as
far as them inking their Rough Trade deal and joining
a roster that includes tonight’s over-celebrated headliners
The ‘who ate all the hype’ Strokes. They seemed to move
in fast when Guided By Voices pulled out as tour support,
but do you really think GBV’s premature withdrawal was
an innocent coincidence? Can’t you just picture the
intrepid five-some sat in a bunker somewhere in leafy
Sussex intercepting and re-routing transatlantic communications
to their own ends, or perhaps dabbing Bob Pollard’s
cigarette tip with arsenic, leaving a book of matches
and scurrying into the night? No? Well of course that’s
all fanciful folly, but the fact of the matter is that
either way they’ve swooped toward these gigs in a pincer
movement, imbuing the fragrance of ready-victory. They
are, after all, nothing if not a band that greet opportunity
like an Englishman grasps at fleeting sporting triumphs.
And with the Gregorian chants of ‘Men Together Today’
ironing out any unwanted kinks in the lofty atmosphere,
a drum roll leads them through into the turbulently
relaxing, Bunnymen and Cure trampling ‘Fear Of Drowning’,
bathed in a misty white light that makes them appear
like a melodic apparition. They perform from the off
with the reserved air of men who know they’re right,
but are too polite to let on, yet. ‘Childhood Memories’
builds as superbly as it did the first glorious time
we heard it reverberating across a room, only this time
much more as there is significantly more room. Yan surveys
the entire sweep of the venue calmly as he sings with
his breathy gasp soaked in awe, no doubt taking time
to appreciate the grand architecture surrounding him.
It proceeds to gather like a molten fireball up an awakening
volcano shaft.
By this point we can physically sense a rippling of
curiosity amongst the rapidly gathering hordes, and
a definite weakening of the wary resolve that is traditionally
built up like an emotional rampart against support bands.
Such an unknown and eccentric concern might have been
expected to fare rather negatively before a drip-fed
mainstream crowd, receiving no more than the patronising
offering of polite applause. But are we proved resolutely
100% wrong on that count. By ‘Remember Me’, actually
recognised with some hearty clapping and a spirited
whoop or two, the girls next to us are dancing like
the good times have taken a hold of them. It is assured,
measured and forceful in necessary amounts and they
begin to prove themselves as refreshing as a fleeting
rain shower and a chilled can of pop on a humid day.
‘Carrion’, a staggering epic with a jagged lead melody
like a runaway electricity bolt, has a branch fall from
Hamilton’s amp in respect. And with the fever spreading
a girl to our left goes mental, clambering on somebody’s
shoulders and earning a modest salute from Yan.
Instrumental b-side ‘The Scottish Wildlife Experience’
is the one though. The one where fortunes change, stars
align, the wind fills the sails and the stars start
falling out of the sky on the opposition’s territory.
The Reserve Cadet is very suddenly on his feet, pacing
the stage, pounding his drum, rallying the audience.
And fittingly hundreds of arms shoot into the air as
the people decide they are most certainly switching
sides rather than suffering defeat. His helmet falls
over his face. More cheers. Leaves fly. Hearts beat
faster. For just a few minutes the English hillbilly
Pixies are holding Ally Pally’s attention span captive
by the scruffs of its sorry neck.
They let it go, give a nod and a humble smile, but it
isn’t going far. Not when they’ve got the 20 minute
mental meltdown of ‘Lately’ in their back pockets, which
begins twinkling irresistibly and ends hijacked by victorious
gremlins in the most ludicrously monumental manner.
We say they have laid claim to the night. The consensus
in this part of the audience at least seems to be the
same. Noble is on the speaker stacks. The Reserve is
wandering possessed. And look, there’s a whopping great
10ft grisly bear! We move back in the audience for a
wider perspective on the unfolding drama, only for the
Reserve Cadet to appear directly in front of us, still
banging his drum as if on some greater conquest. Hamilton
thrashes the bear with foliage, noble thunders down
from the speaker stacks to do the same with his guitar.
They rip the stage apart, twigs fly into the audience,
the bear dances wounded, Hamilton takes to Noble’s shoulders
and then, all of a sudden, it’s over. Their work is
done and the world is a marginally brighter place.
Now, child, that’s what the trees are for.
Relevant sites:
www.britishseapower.co.uk
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2003©
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