Sometimes it takes a little while to get going. In a bid to prove we’re not slacking and to offset a month entirely free of gig attendance we thought we’d jump in with 2 in one night. Yes, the effort does count for something. Tonight, we should mention, is brought to you by the Number 73 bus, which both transports Crud efficiently into town and acts as our carriage between venues, door to door. It’s not all doom and gloom on London transport, see. And aren’t we chipper for January. There’s a lot of that about in the Scala , King’s Cross, tonight actually; in the buzz, in the audience’s hairstyles and onstage, not that it can make up for the distinct lack of definition up there. Three quarters of indie electro-poppers GoodBooks look like they took an aid package from Topman, subsequently appearing still dressed by their mums, which is no way to make a persuasive impression. It might have done Hard-Fi’s sales no harm, but by God that doesn’t make it ok. The guy in the enormous Biff Bang Pow t-shirt and black cardie, with Wonderstuff hair and bold specs playing Police basslines, bumbling about the stage wide-mouthed like he’s riding the Magic Roundabout, has the right idea though. We quite like him. They’re a little like the Sunshine Underground, but without the clout. They’re Depeche Mode minus the massive stadia, funnelled through club speakers and they fashion pop songs with a admirable attention to detail. But tonight we’re left concentrating on what they don’t have, on what’s missing, when their fresh-faced inexperience speaks volumes more than the beats which are omnipresent. If such a thing as New Rave exists, then GoodBooks are probably its most likely route onto Saturday morning telly. Klaxons for Athlete fans. It’s never been a crime to be polite, but that’s just why no one will ever report you for it. A trumpet player shoots out from behind a speaker stack at one point and teases in a touch of unexpected sheen, but while you wouldn’t put it down if you were stuck on a train it was no more than an adequate read. Thankfully no reading materials required for a snappy bus journey just under a mile due west to ULU, where we find one man walking on to the stage, releasing 2 red balloons like doves into the crowd and pressing a button. The pompous jubilance of Freddie Mercury’s guilty pleasure ‘Barcelona’ harrumphs from the PA, announcing through association that pretension doth not roost here. He is followed shortly after by a man in a charity shop jacket with ukulele. And then by 27 others, and as many balloons. Not to mention the bubbles, and the tickertape. The man with the ukulele, that’s Emanuel Lundgren, lunges towards the microphone to announce that he has “BUILT A TREEEEEHOWSE!” as his numbersome band, that’s I’m From Barcelona, chime up accordingly around him. And we can’t tell you how ecstatically made up we are for him either. We always wanted a treehouse, and we always thought it would feel at least this exciting. And look, there’s an oboe jostling for room up there! That beats a trumpet any day of the week. It’s hard to explain precisely the emotion that pours from the stage with the arrival of these 29 ridiculously happy souls from Sweden, but we’re fairly sure that you could never over-describe it. Such a chaotic melee of 4-star merriment, it’s about halfway through the gig before we even begin to focus on the details and musicianship that create the elastic indie jubilance that simmers and sustains their behaviour. The principal role for the lot seems to be simply to expend energy, leave the ground fairy regularly and rebound any balloons that stray back into the audience, but we also notice contributions on a couple of keyboards, guitars, brass and more. We presume there is actual percussion nestling somewhere at the back. The music is, incidentally, pristine. As ringmaster Lundgren excels himself, always on hand with opinions, one liners, one-on-ones exchanges and 18-carot exuberance to whip up the rolling celebratory atmosphere. “What is the name of this next song,” he asks at one point, handing a member of the audience his set list, “I can’t read my own handwriting”. The song turns out to be ‘Chicken Pox’ with its “you can’t have it once you’ve had it” terrace chant tribute to the childhood ailment. Who would have thought they could make it even catchier? It’s not the only subject to receive that treatment either, as they insert Madonna’s ‘Like A Prayer’ into their own ‘Rec & Play’, turning in some mad dub-reggae version. “This is almost too much fun,” remarks their leader, “must be illegal”. I’m For Barcelona on record are tipped in favour of the songs. I’m From Barcelona live are an experience biased strongly in favour of the people. With 29 still obviously too slender a number in Emanuel Lundgren’s mind, he puts out an appeal for any member of the audience carrying a kazoo to join them on stage. Incredibly an impressive 6 people meet the criteria and rise to the challenge, swelling the ranks. And as they round up the all too brief set and slip on a mind-bogglingly daft happy hardcore version of their theme tune, ‘We’re From Barcelona’, there is an invited stage invasion exclusively for the purpose dancing, quite literally inverting the numbers and eroding the already wobbly distinction between band and patrons. But fuck it. The last one not from Barcelona is a joyless eejit!! Relevant sites:
http://www.imfrombarcelona.com
http://www.ilovegoodbooks.com
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2007© |
