Little Man Tate -The Sugarmill, Stoke - 26/3/07
4/5
By: Alex Lee Thomson
"If there's one thing you don't understand, it's man, I hate your band" - the riled up audience scream back at a band that's put Sheffield on the map. Arctic who?... OK, OK... Let's get rid of the arbitrary Apish references now so we can get on with this.
Firstly, LMT do have that same dirty bass line obsessed pounce-pop rock sound and urban poetry overtones that glide across their gritty tunes with the grace of a drugged up clown, and yeah, LMT have taken on a similar vocal persuasion to their slightly more adulated hometown chums. However, when t'Monkeys play live it's a manic scramble for a good view and an hour or so of watching a bunch of guys who seem to hate their crowds as much as their own music, and ramble through songs that have lost all meaning. Legend has it that an Arctic Monkey once smiled, but it's really just tittle-tattle, and although their music has ascended the charts aided by hype and hysterics, we don't think that many true live music lovers could call their routine anything other than regular. LMT however are ace live - utterly and irrefutably fun, bracing, entertaining, sharp and absorbing.
From the opening manoeuvre and persuasive vocal leap to centre stage, the show doesn't let up. It's fire and brimstone shell-shocked into a state of readiness and paraded before us like a Soho hooker; seductive, cheap and ready for hot explicit love-action that our parents would all disapprove of. It's rock 'n' roll in the way The Motorettes and Subways know it and doesn't just play off the back of an existing sound but rides along side it as an experience in its own right turning a few heads along the way. You can call them a Monkeys B-group, and in a way you'd be right as if it hadn't had been for that lucky bunch LMT probably wouldn't have got signed and promoted, or at least not in the same way they have. They owe a lot to '...Dancefloor', true, but in the same breath you have to realise that live they're just, well, better - so much so that it makes you snivel with pain and confusion and every person in the Mill knew it, every last one of the head bopping, romance lovin', beat obsessed brothers in arms that brought the show to life and raised the roof as much as the Mill has ever seen before... ruining a perfectly good pair of jeans belonging to this rockfeedbacker in the process.
Raw mental annihilation surges through the LMT set list, which along with some new songs that will end the Monkey/Tate scrap-off once and for all, jeers at you and tussles you to the ground, dry humping the gaps in your shoes. Their charisma and undisputable reign over an audience is the stuff of musicians wet dreams and while 'Sexy In Latin' and 'This Could Be Love' hold some scornful beauty it's 'European Lover' and 'Court Report' that flash the nipples of your music ridden body to attention. There's still that little voice telling you there's nothing that original about them, which we know there's not, but when they break into 'House Party At Boothy's' we just don't care. When you write a song as anthemic and wonderful as '...Boothy's', we just don't give a toss, frankly.
Little Man Tate deserve every last shred of respect they've earned and across the dancefloor of Stoke's infamous Sugarmill their gratitude for being one of the finest bands in modern raunch 'n' roll is ushered. As the Sheffield wonders leave they announce their perpetual worship for us, as any qualified band should, and invite us all out for after show drinks and tidings of joy. As a band, they've managed to gain a respectful following of devoted fans that have remained close to them throughout their steady rise to semi-fame and this has created a little men club where the fans feel allied, respected and indebted. Grateful for somebody who's not all that genius, but just happens to be a striding personification of the common mans mind... or at least all those north of the Watford Gap.
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