Land of Talk - Metro, London - 2/6/08
4/5
By: Andrew Misuraca
The first thing I'm asked at the door is if I'm on the guest list. This is new - I'm usually struggling to get in, so my ears prick up. Next I spy a placard with the gig's sponsors, among them Music Week and Billboard. I wonder if I'm in the right place. Land of Talk at the Metro, fair enough. Sponsored by Billboard and Music Week? I didn't think anybody knew Land of Talk, let alone the stewards of pop taste.
Inside, everyone looks pretty fabulous. Well dressed men potter about nervously in the bathroom and by the bar, pretty girls are on their arms. There is an air of mistrust, like an informant's convention, everyone's waiting for their secret liaison to come through the door, eyes fluttering at the first sign of movement. I'm watched as I walk towards the bar. I'm starting to get the picture. There are probably three people that paid to get in tonight, the rest are industry types; photographers, managers, label folk and worst of all, journalists, all trying to suss each other out. They watch as I reach into my bag and pull out pen and paper.
I'm in halfway through the first band who I believe are called Rest. Fairly inoffensive pop, some nice moments, but they're not saying much. They stand about dressed like the Next catalogue being all earnest. A couple of rounds of applause and it's the next band, the Parlotones, four well if not over dressed South Africans decked out in tight black with red ties. They look like a mature My Chemical Romance (complete with über emo bassist). Their fervent followers sing along to every word although oblivious to the fact that most of their songs are rehash Radiohead, from chord movements to riffs to straight up ripping off effects. They're good though, the people seem to love them and it's clear to see why, the way the frontman struts about looking like Matt Bellamy possessed by the ghost of hyperbole. They're like the South African answer to Kaiser Chiefs and Maximo Park, only they're Radiohead rapists. But hey, the pretty girls are having fun and that's what matters in the pop world.
Finally, Land of Talk take to the stage. They open with 'Summer Special', and I can't take my eyes away from this petite woman who feels the stage so beautifully. No overblown poses, no operatic gestures; all natural, squatting low and snaking up like she's stepping out of the path of the notes ringing from her guitar, the twitching of her leg, foot twisted inwards and heel tapping, her SG hung so high that its horn caresses her breast. I think I'm in love. Her voice is earthy, so wonderfully natural and seductive, like a southern croon. Montreal be blessed, I'm in love!
I tear my eyes away from her long enough to notice the rest of the band. After all tonight's pomp and industry sheen Land of Talk seem out of place yet they make the Metro feel like the Metro again. I forget about the Billboard adverts and focus on the drummer who feels every hit and the bassist, unassuming yet deadly. This trio make a wonderful racket and it's a joy to watch them, so natural and under dressed. They are an anchor tonight keeping the Metro grounded and I'm thankful.
They don't say much between songs more content with playing and enjoying themselves, and then come the opening chords of 'Sea Foam'; the way the hi hats build throughout the verse, the rousing chorus and that voice that I would have lulling me to sleep every night if I could. They become more muscular live but still retain that empowered preciousness with the added benefit of the lovely Elizabeth Powell floating about the stage. It's good to see them headlining a bill like this and hopefully a sign of things to come.
I love Land of Talk and so does the rest of the crowd, shouting "more! More!" as Miss Powell gently lets us down with a winning smile. I can't wait to see them again.
Artists in this article: Land of Talk
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