The Sleepy Jackson / Snow Patrol / The Futureheads - London Astoria - 11/2/04
4/5
By: Thomas Hannan
Who needs alarm-bells when the lull of sleep can be broken by northerners chanting 'Z-Z-Z-Zieg Heil' in stuttered cannon? After the overcooked Kid Symphony, only something as spontaneous and urgent as The Futureheads could revive the drowsy audience at 'NME' presents...
Cue Sunderland's finest, and imagine a frenetic barrage of tri-pronged vocal attacks, cuttingly acerbic stutterings, 'oo-ee-oos' wrested from an early Police, and abrasive choruses; this will get you somewhere close to the Futurehead audio and visual experience, but think of four gauche stammerers on speed and you hit the nail on the futurehead.
Arousing indeed, for, having digested the works of The Talking Heads, The Jam, and XTC, these four upstarts throw up something completely different - angular new-wave punk with an idiosyncratic Brit twist, black-rimmed NHS prescriptives, and four-part harmonies a-go-go. With Andy Gill having produced their singles and Gang of Four influences ubiquitous among guitar bands today, The Futureheads could be forgiven for sounding like their mentor and a mish-mash of everything gone before: distinctively though, they sound more de vigour than de rigour, ricocheting about onstage in a display marked out by side-shuffling (with the exception of guitarist Ross, who thrashes and jerks on stage a la fish out of water) and 'distinctive', would serve as fine epithet to their two-minute soundtracks.
The hurtling pace to exponents of the '1, 2, 3, Nul EP', releases 'First Day' and 'A to B' were all given the Astoria treatment, and material to grace the upcoming album was showcased too. Choppy guitars, art-punk and hooks aplenty, a throbbing future beckons geekily.
And a future that beckoned for so long for Snow Patrol, however, has finally, finally arrived. But, although it sounds cruel to state it, their live evolution is still struggling somewhat to catch up with their degree of both album and single chart success.
Well, they've got the tunes, that's for sure; it's just that the tendency of their company to be cute and charming currently overwhelms more than any real degree of commanding stage-presence. So there are glimpses - such as a rather fine 'Spitting Games' - that show exactly how good it could all be once everything falls into place, but it's not until hit single 'Run' that things truly start to work. Lucky bleeders, they've found themselves an anthem - one so in touch with its audience that they even have the nerve to try out the 'lets stop singing and let the crowd take over' bit. And it works. As if spurred on by its warm reception, Snow Patrol proceed to be an immensely improved, confident proposition for the remainder of the set. (Hey, perhaps they should have opened with it...).
The Sleepy Jackson, meanwhile, look hilarious. Part 'Wizard of Oz', Led Zeppelin and World's Strongest Man, you can tell from their very appearance that if you're after convention, you'll be woefully disappointed. If, however, it's rock and roll that can be invigorating, hilarious, maddening and lullaby-sweet within the space of minutes, then, my friend, you've come to the right place.
They start as they have no intention of carrying on. We get a good few tracks' worth of straight-up, no-nonsense rock music - and stand in bewilderment, as it certainly wasn't what we thought was on the cards. There we were, expecting some sumptuous country pop, and we're being peddled simple, scratchy riffs. Perhaps it was foolish of us to anticipate anything from this lot (after tonight, it becomes clear its better to just not expect anything, from anyone, ever), but we still feel a little disappointed. Nothing wrong with the rock, Sleepy heads, but let's be straight - your other side is, simply, far superior.
We wouldn't say it to frontman Luke Steele's face though, oh no; the man who does nearly gets a good thrashing from the man himself (but, then, maybe he should have come up with a better heckle than just shouting 'Shit!' over and over). Plus, the band do actually know where their real strengths lie, as when they arrive (most notably in a dreamily gorgeous 'Good Dancers'), they're utterly sublime. They can keep it up too; a short glimpse of a section of 'Mourning Rain' keeps us swaying on our toes, 'Come To This' is equally beguiling, and 'Don't You Know' even acts as a worthy sequel to Cat Steven's 'Wild World'.
Then: an electric piano gets brought to the front of the stage, is musically caressed beautifully, and then thrown to the floor and left to make ungodly noise. Steele appears wearing what looks like a lot of traffic lights with a tube emanating from the top allowing him to shout into them, a guitarist gets his head half-shaved, and we feel stupid that we were just about to think that we knew what was going on.
So, afterwards, are we infuriated that a band with so much talent spends so much of their time pissing about instead of playing songs? Strangely, no. To their credit, The Sleepy Jackson are insane, and won't let anyone have it any other way.
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