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Talk about being stuck between a rock and a sludgy
metal place. We had our doubts about Elbow and
this bill. There is certainly no denying that they do
share, or have shared, a taste for the progressive with
the headliners, but that their sublime creations are
conspicuous through a lack of oppressive guitars that
choose “DAH DAH DAH DAAAH!” as their native language
was an obvious concern. And following Martin Grech’s
shallow metal muddle too? Who, for all his lauded intricacies
and peak-scaling on record, sounds like no more than
an atonal, detuned Jeff Buckley impostor lost in a cavern,
innovations and ambitions spread far too thinly? It’s
a club sandwich that’s bound to leave a helping of grit
between your back molars. Rest assured that Muse
will be along to floss the ten thousand before the night’s
out, but given the circumstances, the Bury boys actually
rise to the occasion and bathe the palette in all manner
of strengths and flavours.
 And
all without attempting to adapt to this new habitat.
What we don’t get is a sledgehammer industrial ‘Any
Day Now’ remix, we don’t even get Craig rocking the
combat and key-chain look as a concession. What we do
get is an Elbow we fully expect, but one that shrouds
every corner of this ridiculous room with a measured
omnipresent potency, proving their reach to be far greater
than we originally imagined. ‘Red’ flutters adeptly
up through stories of emotion without resorting to any
artificial strengtheners. And when they do hit overdrive
on ‘Bitten By The Tailfly’, remaining a rod of iron
in their set, they do so with a tender humility. We
close our eyes and imagine them headlining this place
themselves, and open them to see a mass of swaying arms
holding up the delicate, beautiful ‘Switching Off’.
And with a mind-blowing multi-faceted ‘Grace Under Pressure’
they put a full stop on a definitively embracing performance,
no doubt breaking a few new hearts on the way.
“Thaaank yoooooou Weeeembeeerlee!”. Fuck me, if Mat
Bellamy’s not been waiting every one of his 25 years
to utter those sacred words. And with them he’s made
this place seem both bigger and strangely more welcoming.
They’re about the only words he utters all night, but
then they’re the only words he really has to utter all
night. And with that he spirals down from his ludicrous
keyboard perch (a Rick Wakeman fantasy number, neon
illuminations connected to individual keys) under a
twinkling spotlight, feedback gristle surging from his
axe, one arm held fully aloft, then stands righteously
on the lip of the stage as they burst into ‘Newborn’,
the audience collectively leave the ground, the air
detonates helplessly and the walls very nearly cave
in. Probably. You can sense the breeze blocks at the
stadium construction site over the road packing themselves
back up before he gets to them too.
 From
the beginning of devastating opener ‘Apocalypse Please’
he summons several shades of Mercury, probably living
off the parts of Freddie that are intrinsically weaved
into that historically creaking stage. Never before
has he been so very charismatic, or seemed quite so
extraordinarily prodigious. To say that he (not to denounce
their solid capability as a whole) is the most refreshingly
runaway innovative rock star this country has produced,
in the last decade certainly, twenty years maybe, would
be an understatement. Just name another. It’s a fact
hammered home with every astonishing moment at the keys,
trashing the scales vocally, or on his knees thrashing
blazing intricacies from every corner of his guitar,
any which way, as though distances or the number of
digits he was blessed with are no serious hindrance.
If music is said to be the shorthand of emotion, he’s
transcribing a warped worldview in its entirety, longhand,
in real time, amplifying the whole damn thing and hitting
distort.
Like most of the hypothetically-obscene science fiction
written decades before the turn of the century, we could
only dream of a band this complex and forward-angled
manifesting itself in something as traditional as a
rock band and becoming fact for a new millennium. But
open your eyes. You’ve got a phone in your pocket too,
right? There is a beautiful moment in the dying seconds
of ‘Blackout’, as the remaining battered fragile threads
of sound and ambience melt gradually to nothing, he
balances his guitar on his head, gestures calmly to
the capacity audience and with a beaming smile surveys
the feverous balloon-laden, glitter-popping frenzy that
refuses to stop unfolding before him. There was a thought
that they had prematurely shot their commercial load
with last year’s Dockland’s Arena show. Then they released
‘Absolution’. Best get used to this then, kid.
Relevant sites:
Muse Official
Elbow
Official
Martin
Grech Official
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2003©
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