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They're making this all a little too easy. Out stroll
The Ordinary Boys who, during the course of their
short performance, announce their title and presence
about 3 times. Nuff said really. This review wouldn't
be missing a thing if it finished here. But we're nothing
if not thorough, when dressing down a band at least.
Frontman Preston appears, replete with Ocean Colour
Scene hair and wine lodge shirt as if he's just ponced
in from the All Bar One over the road, epitomising buttoned-up
Britain in its self-referential egocentric buffed caricature.
Or in brief, looking like a right potential twat. And
he leads his average lads through a breakneck bundle
of reconstituted Jam numbers with a handful of Who guitar
theatrics, fick as treacle Laaandan hollers, sharp chiming
chords and the lot. And it's not deplorable by any stretch
of the imagination (not that theirs can have been under
much duress), but the first song outstays its 3 minute
welcome and the remainder offer up little in the way
of bribes to turn that around. Bet they were gutted
when Pete Libertine left the Clink. But the Supergrass
support slot and inevitable Gallagher endorsement
must surely be safe. The jury however is still out.
 And
they can take their time. They'll need not bother deliberating
over Stellastarr*. If you're thinking, as we
did, that tonight was to be a foregone conclusion, based
logically on knowledge of their debut album and the
hormonal fireworks contained within (just one listen
is all it takes), then you'd simply be right. There'll
be no queuing to be next in line for Jacko's legal brass
here. Not when all it takes is a pocketful of power-chords,
some incredulous lead and so-stupidly-flaming-sweet-they're-crystallising
backing vocals, plus an artfully raised eyebrow or two,
to have them condemned as guilty as hell but bloody
well getting away with it, alright. Almost everything
about them is polystyrene-down-a-Marmite-covered-blackboard
cringeworthy. From the five-pronged gaffer-tape star(r)
across drummer Arthur's right nipple, to Shawn's every
orchestrated move (which most of them are – nonchalantly
entering the stage like a compromise between Kelly Jones
and Brian Molko, in tight fitting green leather jacket
and jet-black apprentice-TCTC hair, didn't help). But
where most bands who bump style over content get the
same back from their audience, chin stroking on the
verge on indifference, Stellastarr* encourage only gregarious
grins and reckless wall-bouncing.
Pop music demands little more than for you to wink and
say how nice its skin looks under the lights. Indie
would naturally be repulsed by such thoughts that probably
only go to highlight the futility of existence and the
imminent death of all you hold dear. Stellastarr* are
brilliantly both. They’re a glittery mannequin with
internal organs, a magpie that cherishes its shiny cache
and probably left an IOU anyway. ‘’In The Walls’ is
simultaneously icy, distancing and overwhelmingly present
with a hypnotizing melody that’s impossible to resist,
‘Jenny’ is fraught, rupturing fuzz-pop that brings forth
only unrestrained, oversubscribed joy and ‘Moongirl’
is understated simplicity with everything on top. And
nobody’s denying that without the last quarter of a
century of recorded music they’d probably be drawing
portraits for a dollar on the streets of New York, but
new one ‘Stay Entertained’ is nothing if not a Stellastarr*
tune through and through, brilliant unabashed pretension
and overzealous guitars that brand you with a love bite.
Essentially their every move could be framed, not a
moment is wasted. I-fucking-conic. Put them on a t-shirt
and wear it till it drops off.
Relevant sites:
Stellastarr
Official
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2003©
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