The Coral / The Hokum Clones / The Stands - Exeter Lemon Grove - 14/10/02
4/5
By: Thomas Hannan
If it doesn't feature one already, The Coral's tour-bus should have a 'This Machine Kills Normality' sticker displayed proudly on the rear windscreen. The Lemon Grove is a long distance from their native Liverpool, but it matters little as their sound is one that doesn't actually seem to fit any geographical location; just as they are as comfortable slipping from Polka one minute to Gregorian-chanting the next, the sextet act as if they're right at home, no matter how far away from Merseyside they might be. And, tonight, a sold out Exeter crowd are very hospitable indeed.
One crew who've just had first-hand experience of the journey down from the north are the evening's first act, The Stands. Making the mammoth trip down from Liverpool simply to do this gig might have been time-consuming, but a wasted journey it was not. To look at, they're an odd mix of indie fringes and Albert Hammond curls and leather jackets. To listen to, it's a well-received mix of McCartney, Young and Dylan. Collectively, it's a combination that was never likely to fail, and whilst they haven't quite added much of their own flair to proceedings so far, it's not a foolhardy prediction to say this won't take long... If you've got a spare eye, you'd do well to keep one poised on The Stands.
The Hokum Clones, second on tonight's triple bill of bands from near the 'Pool, take pride in the fact that nobody seems to know what they're up to. The twosome spend their entire set lit by only two soft spotlights casting fearsome shadows over their otherwise normal appearances. It's even all acoustic, occasionally beefed up with the odd harmonica solo, and dark in a kind of Tim Burton, if-he-was-a-blues-musician, way. An exceptional 'Breaking from a Jailhouse' markedly showcases their musical and vocal ability flawlessly, and rightly receives the biggest crowd-reaction, the contingent clapping along in some form of comforting, smoke-induced trance; sure, nobody knows quite what game they're playing, but everyone seems to want to join in.
The Coral's hour-long set starts with a search for a girl who looks like Dave Grohl. 'Has anyone seen her? We want to take her home,' enquires cherub-faced frontman, James Skelly. They then proceed to have a fight about who gets to keep her before the music (literally) sets sail. A note-perfect 'Spanish Main' gets things underway before they sonically assault near-on every track from their extraordinary, self-titled debut album.
And even some of what are, arguably, that long-player's less inspired moments suddenly make perfect sense in a live setting; 'Waiting For The Heartaches' changes from a plodding croon to something you can move to, and 'Bad Man' translates with much more twisted energy in this hazy room tonight than it manages on record. For all its meandering, though, none of this is in the least bit freeform, each note, time signature change and burst of other worldly noise choreographed to careful precision. It works best on a brilliantly frenzied 'Skeleton Key', when bodies begin to gyrate uncontrollably to the Captain Beefheart-on-speed riffs, hands attacking the air to the mumbling of something about 'intricate locks'. It all makes no sense whatsoever, but absurdity unquestionably proves to be their virtue.
However, where 'Skeleton Key' showcases instrumental-competence, the vocal capabilities on 'Shadows Fall' simply blow you away, in a very quiet, sea-shanty-on-a-boat-at-night style. It's slower than usual, but this just allows for it to saturate your senses even more. Then, just when you're really starting to believe you're in some sort of ancient monastery, they throw in some frenzied polka. Crazy fools. When The Coral do write 'proper' songs, too, as on the nearly normal current single 'Dreaming Of You', it's by no means a let down. In fact, it's a highlight of the evening, the crowd splitting into different factions to concentrate on their favourite parts, some bravely taking on the task of the 'wa-ooh's and luscious harmonies, the others preferring to skank away to the oompah-ska beats. Which is exactly as it should be.
Despite all the melodic chaos that precedes it, nothing can prepare anyone for the finale. Watching 'Goodbye' turn from radio-friendly sing-along to a fifteen-minute long, psychedelic devil-hymn is like the soundtrack to Frankenstein's monster coming to life and discovering rock and roll. The noise reaches deafening point, things begin to spin, whilst Skelly stands still centre-stage counting his band back in for the main riff. When it kicks in, it's nothing short of insane brilliance. Magic.
Lest it be remembered, however, that most geniuses go mad after they've done their best work. Let's just hope The Coral never get cured.
Photo Credit: Andrew Prytherch
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