A
formerly-grand monument to extravagance, accessibility and broadcast history,
rotting majestically atop a steep hillock in North-East London, Ally Pally has
become indie music’s cavern of choice lately. Its Wembley, if you will – no doubt
helped along by the famous North-West London cattleshed’s current status as building
site. And also by the fact that Muswell Hill’s leafy, raised suburbs piss from
height onto Wembley’s grey, squalid, industrial anonymity, whichever angle you
squint from. But you wouldn’t be out of turn nicknaming the place ‘The
Gallows’ either, such is the abrupt reality-check afforded to otherwise unstoppable
groups that set up in its Great Hall for nights on end, seeing fit to listen to
artificial sales and their own marketing mistruths over common sense. Hello The
Strokes, and are you comfortable over there Razorlight and Kasabian? Of course,
that makes little difference. Audiences still lap it all up, scream endlessly
like Take That have just reformed (erm…) and lower their expectations yet further.
But then public floggings have been big business since ye olden days – maybe that’s
it. But I digress. Tonight is different anyway, in so many ways. Franz
Ferdinand have proved their universal worth already by appearing as practiced
hosts in whatever situation they find themselves, not unlike Sam from genius 90’s
drama Quantum Leap – from the miniscule square-footage of the clubs, to wallpapering
music television, providing pull-out quotes to order for the press, selling out
theatre tours and graduating to the big stages at the festivals like they were
just popped fresh out of a can. They’ve done it all without missing a beat, playing
second fiddle to a drug addiction or stropping it up like a petulant child. Unlike
many of their so called peers, predecessors or potential successors, they’ve yet
to feel like a single idea stretched to transparency. Ironic perhaps, considering
that is precisely what they are. One distinct idea played out to its limits. We
expected them to be immaculate then, we expected precision and for the edges to
be clean and lazer-enforced. But none of that would have surprised us. Yet we
edge out of the venue at the tail-end of a dizzy ‘This Fire’, exhausted and astounded.
Tonight they offer up a textbook interpretation of how to stage a pop concert
– this is no mere gig – like they just invented the pen and the printing press.
The stage set is simplicity magnified. Like some fantasy retro TV studio,
a white riser circles the rear of the stage, holding drums, keyboards and room
for spontaneous raised strutting. There is a massive black & white screen encased
in a striking red trim. And there are changeable backdrops rotating on shuffle.
Every aspect is played out perfectly, not least the fine directorial touches to
the in-show film; focusing on a reflection of bassist Bob in a metal amp plate
for instance, or layering images into effective multi-faceted collages. The logo
of their label Domino on the bass drum is a refreshingly humble touch too. Even
the lighting rig shakes in time – oh no, hang on, that’s just the man strapped
in with a roving spotlight, waving his arms wildly to ‘Matinee’. This room
tends to eat atmosphere and applause whole – though looks constantly good on the
screens – but you can really taste it during the fabulous revving ‘Do You Want
To?’ and ‘The Fallen’ especially. Alex retains his arty, detached cool, but froths
at the mouth with unbridled determination. Nick looks so frantically wound up,
turfing out riffs like a cross between James Bond’s evil nemesis and a dapper
Thunderbird. Bob and Paul are faultlessly smooth. It’s a band that deserves –
is practically owed – the cheesy intros during the climactic ‘Darts Of Pleasure’,
which incidentally seem like the coolest thing since deep-fried Elvis at the time.
Proportionally they just fit the room, without any complicated trickery. It
is such a complete package, there’s almost too much to look at. And listen to,
as they do play practically everything, incredibly well. We feel spoilt, indulged
to the verge of obscenity. We expected sharp tunes, a choreographed performance
and fancy lights. We got the best damn arena show we ever did see. Christmas may
well be a let down after this. Relevant sites:
http://www.franzferdinand.com
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2005©
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| 04/05 British Sea Power - Live - Scala, London
04/05 Eels - Live - Royal Festival Hall, London
04/05 Doves, Elbow, Longview - Carling 24 , Manchester
04/05 Joy Zipper, ICA London
04/05 The National - 100 Club, London
04/05 Redjetson / Liberez / Twentysixfeet - Marquee, London
04/05 The Warlocks - Bethnal Green Working Men's Club
12/04 Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - ULU, London
12/04 Elbow - Live -Brixton Academy, London
12/04 Franz Ferdinand - Live - Alexandra Palace, London
12/04 Morning Runner - Kings College London
12/04 Carling Weekend Reading Festival 2005
12/04 Sigur Rós - Brixton Academy, London
12/04 Crud Top 20 Albums 2005 |  |
January 2001
July - August 2001
September - October 2001
November - December 2001
January - March 2002
April - July 2002
August - December 2002
January - March 2003
May - August 2003
November 2003
January - March 2004
April - September 2004
October - December 2004
January - March 2005
April - December 2005
January - August 2006
September - December 2006
January - September 2007
October - December 2007
January - May 2008
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