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If there's one thing that Regal as a label has been missing, certainly
as it's grown in age, it's a new jewel in its crown. Of late it's
felt a little like the last paper effort from Christmas with a cracker-treat
toy diamond stapled to the front, a bit of a one trick pony, a bit
like you couldn't actually appreciate it anymore. The said mule is
of course the ubiquitous and often still brilliant Beta Band and
its one trick, eclectic psychedelic far-flung mood rock. Of which
there's plenty of occasion left for, naturally. It's like a natty
party trick you'll never completely tire of, but when the rest of
the do was under-performances from the likes of Orange Can
and Brothers In Sound you never felt like staying and mainly
left before the conversation got crap.
Which makes the fact that they've addressed the problem by fleshing
out and adding - to name two - the likes of weathered folkies Alfie
and new retro-pop lifeblood from Athlete to the roster rather joyous
really. Trekking out to Athlete's home turf Deptford (essentially
The Sticks as far as Central London's concerned) to catch this gig
in a glorified though reassuringly welcoming church hall affair (including
temporary bar and a raffle ticket with your beer - Crud was number
65 incidentally if the prize remains uncollected) makes the occasion
seem all a bit cute and colloquial. A more polite League Of Gentleman
maybe (locals gigs for local people, etc)?
But as it turns out it actually goes some way to reinforce their
honest-to-goodness, salt-of-the-earth seasoned and characteristic
roughed-up pop mettle. The only recorded evidence to date, the not
misleadingly titled 'Athlete EP', offers up 3 sincerely perfect slabs
of breezy, beat-led summer abandon, all of which get a worthy live
airing tonight. 'Westside' rules especially, sounding like a gramophone
play fight between Deacon Blue and the Super Furries
in The Police's attic. Go on, just imagine it. We'd pay to see it.
You could be listening to The Beta Band nipping out in their astrophysically
altered tumble dryer, nicking the best solid gold guitar pop bits
from the 80s, forcing them into an Adidas bag and scampering back
across space and time. Watching them it's like kids who've got the
keys to the indie candy shop and are intent on abusing the privilege,
throwing a liquorish melody, a sugary electronic WHOOOSH, a clotted
BEEEEP and a lyrical cola twist direct into the homely audience's
expectant dribbling mouths. And just when it's all in danger of going
a bit Peter Gabriel they smash up the sweet jars and make like The
Ramones, very briefly. Not looking at all like pop stars, but possessing
some of the best pop tunes Crud has heard since, well, The Procliamers
(and don't think we're being ironic), Regal's got its tiara back.
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2002© 
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