If I'd built up high expectations for a gig in recent months, it was this one. Having been truly blown away by The Twilight Sad when they played the Brudenell in Leeds a year or so back, I'd been itching to see them again, and the devastatingly powerful new album, 'Forget the Night Ahead' only made me more excited. Of course, the danger of such great anticipation is that one can be so easily disappointed. Would - could - they deliver?
I wish I'd taken note of the first support act in order to know who to look out for and avoid in future. Yes, they were cringe-inducingly bad and the less said the better.
Yonderboy, whose latest single I reviewed only a few days back, wore their guitars high and demonstrated substantially more muscle live than recorded. They delivered a sound set, the Wedding Present influence abundantly evident, although I'd suggest they're more Gene than The Smiths.
And so, the main event. With Shellac's '1000 Hurts' album playing through the PA before they took to the stage, the scene was set. From the opening barrage of noise as they launched into 'Reflection of the Television,' I knew they wouldn't fall short. With the drum kit pulled right up to the front of the stage, they played close together, restricting their space for movement and concentrating every ounce of energy into the central zone. James Graham spends much of the set side-on to the audience, eyes closed or raised toward the ceiling, and even delivers many of the lyrics on his knees. The strength of the performance isn't in the band's playing to the audience, but in the focus on simply playing.
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The resulting sound - a wall of noise that fills every square inch of the air - hits like a punch between the eyes. There's little pause between songs, and immediately they're tearing through 'That Summer, At Home I Had Become the Invisible Boy' followed by a full-throttle rendition of 'I Became A Prostitute.' There's no let-up in intensity during a comparatively short but drainingly intense set that grew louder as it progressed. The backline's positively fizzing and the vocals, often largely unintelligible to begin with, are partially buried as they tear through 'And She Would Darken the Memory,' 'Seven Days of Letters' and a blistering 'That Birthday Present' building to a climactic performance of 'Cold Days at the Birdhouse.'
There's not much chat from the band and there's no encore (partly on account of the curfew) but less is definitely more, and what the set lacked in duration it more than compensated in every other way. As the lights come up, I'm half deaf and feel like I've been physically pumelled for the last hour, which is everything I'd wanted and more.
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