Placebo - 'Soulmates Never Die' (Hut)
4/5
By: Toby L
Humble fellows, not. More gagging than Brian Molko's bald-spot, the back-cover press-blurb for Placebo's latest DVD-release overly gushes... 'Every so often, it all comes together. Band, crowd, venue and the music itself. Always the music.'
'Scuse us for a second.
BLEURRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHGGGGGG!
Ah, that's better.
In the equally vomit-inducingly titled 'Soulmates Never Die', aside from hitting upon more heroic clichιs than a two-hour Bon Jovi stadium-concert, the international glam-trio manage to pulverise 16,000 fans at a sold-out Paris Bercy with aplomb and hit-singles in tow.
But, lest we forget, this is all centring on the band's recent 'Sleeping With Ghosts' campaign - so we're indulged in all the grisly, dirt-sex trax of the latter, with few such saving set-staple graces as 'You Don't Care About Us', 'Nancy Boy', et al. Instead, we get oldies such as 'Bionic', 'Every You, Every Me', a sweeping, climactic 'Pure Morning', and final 'Where Is My Mind?', featuring original songsmith of the piece, Frank Black, waddling onstage for a guest-vocal. That much is epic.
The rest: actually, to pay them their dues, Placebo are in their own circle, a secluded, damp, sleazy corner from the main rock-threshold, where rusty guitars, belligerent, overbearing bass and snappy drums and Brian Molko's implausible whine are the consistent soundtrack to the disaffected Goth-pop fans' daily regime. 'The Bitter End' is anthemic to these tortured souls, 'Black-Eyed' and 'Special Needs' the dark, shimmering antidotes/mirrors to depression, while 'Special K' is a drugs-addled mess and 'Slave To The Wage' the everyman anthem.
Onstage, they pout and flail, and particularly in the icy bleakness of 'Without You, I'm Nothing' or back-streets of Soho sass of 'Taste In Men', the motions are more subdued, the adoring audience clearly enraptured by the archness of it all, one which, cunningly, doesn't scale the cacophonous peaks of pretence.
Coupled with moody, basic documentary footage - the ol', earnest, 'on-tour' feel, no less - this is a surprisingly favourable compendium to any mascara-soaked revellers' DVD-racks. Just don't dress like them, you camp philistines.
Artists in this article: Placebo
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