Heart of a Punk - Soul of a Rasta

Glasvegas/White Lies/Thomas Tantrum
Wulfrun Hall - Wolverhampton - 4 December 2008

Off once more to the comfort blanket that is the Wolverhampton Wulfrun Hall for what promises to be a pleasant evening of light uncomplicated popular music. Wrong. Straight away I'm woken from my somnolence. Firstly by the security geezer on the door, he inquires in a slow gruff sarcastic tone “Glasvegas?” What does he mean Glasvegas? Of course Glasvegas! He fixes me with a stone faced stare his eyes as blue as his nose, he tugs at the thick silver earring stretching his left ear lobe like gum, then he lets it go, it springs back into place and he shakes his head. After a long pause he mutters almost imperceptibly through clenched teeth. “Are you sure you want Glasvegas mate? Because you look too old and too sad for Glasvegas, surely you should be round the corner at the Civic Hall for Duffy? Come on mate don't waste my time, admit it, you've made a mistake haven't you, haven't you?” “No. I've come to see Glasvegas” I squeak. A new victim has arrived. He steps aside looking surprised to still see me there I shuffle past and up the steps.

Now it's the turn of the beautiful ticket ripping girl to shake me from my slumber, she takes my ticket, makes eye contact, wrinkles her brow and asks. “Can you tell me what name you bought your ticket under?” Oh shit! Inwardly the old panic takes hold, they're not going to let me in, f'in ebay why did I buy the f'in ticket off f'in ebay, they're really not going to let me in, she's looking over her shoulder she's going to call the bouncers, it's going to be the Glasgow Apollo '79 all over again, I'm going between those double doors again, I'm going to get a right kicking, chucked out, a mouthful of pavement. Luckily even in my blind panic I'm able to come up with an unassailable defence. “Err someone bought the ticket for me so I don't know what name it was bought under.” It doesn't work. Another ticket ripping person advances (he's not as beautiful as the first, personally speaking anyway) She whispers something to him (unnecessarily close to his ear for a mere professional relationship I think) they both stifle a smile and look me up and down. She rips my ticket and ushers me into the auditorium, the doors close behind me but a shout of “Should be at Duffy” and raucous laughter follows me in.

Comfort zone is quickly restored, I take up my usual spot stage right gum is inserted lights dim the first unassuming protagonists Thomas Tantrum enter shoe gazing from stage left. Ok try to believe (because I am) that I have never heard of Thomas Tantrum before this evening, I know nothing of their “Rage Against the Tantrum” November release or their Lilly Allen frequented myspace site. Ok? Let us get on. Straight off for an elderly gentlemen like myself who doesn't get out much and has already had two Red Bulls too many, the appearance of Miss Megan Thomas alone stepping forward to adjust the mike is enough to demand my attention. Without any hoo ha they launch with gusto into “Shake it Shake it” and we know immediately were going to be served indie with a capital I. Highly burnished indie, confident indie driven along by David Miat's guitar and punctuated in all the right places by the vocal whimsy of Thomas but strictly indie all the same. They rattle merrily through a short set the lyrically pithy “Why the English are Rubbish” being top for me.

It's very clear that "Thomas Tantrum" ARE a decent enough band that know what they're about. And they have a quintessentially English female voice at the helm (rare as hen's teeth) so what's the problem? Well the problem for me is their “Rage against the Tantrum” debut it is just too clean for my elderly some may say impoverished taste. Whimsy is fabulous, Morrissey has whimmed away for years but his whimsy has always had dirty nails. Likewise Art Brut are fine purveyors of the English brand of pithy but a filthy musical backing is required so that pithy doesn't just become bland. On the evidence of tonight's live doings Thomas Tantrum are a fine indie combo armed with wry humour and whimsy lets hope we get to see their mean side sometime soon.

And so to the much babbled about White Lies who stride confidently out of the mist attired in the obligatory black shirts and similarly stride confidently into “Unfinished Business”, quickly followed by six other pieces including “Fifty on our Foreheads” concluding (as we all will some day) with “Death”. They are universally well received by the sell out crowd from begining to end.

On tonights performance, for me the Joy Division tag doesn't seem wholly apt, applied perhaps on the evidence of the “Death” release alone (The Editors still hold sway as top Joy Division mimics). White Lies are more like Warsaw carefully strained through a Cure sieve. As for the Julian Cope comparisons, McVeigh's vocals do at times inhabit the same territory but that's as far as it goes - the world is scary enough without there being two Julian Copes. In the chorus of the soon to be single “To Lose My Life” Mr M's voice veers closer to that of Robert Smith and I think that points the direction in which these boys will be travelling. Even from White Lies brief self-assured bash tonight it is clear that they have a sound big enough already to transpose not just to bigger stage but to the bigger North American continent. America here are the young men the weight on their shoulders.


PS Mr Editor, am I correct in believing White Lies are from Chiswick?
Yes John they are, but leave it.


Whilst the roadies rearrange the stage my mind wanders off and I wonder why it is that even though I did see Jesus and Mary Chain live a couple of times back in the day in my record collection which has reached incalculable proportions I don't have a single Jesus and Mary Train CD or wax disk. Why am I pondering J&MC at this time?

Finally the backlighting is in order, the smoke machine is turned up to eleven & Mr Creation records favourites appear in silhouette and proceed with a solid set culled from their highly rated debut. The singles “Daddy's Gone” & “Geraldine” are fired off with aplomb. So too is “It's My Own Cheating Heart” which seems to skewer the crowd into rapt concentration rather than wild motion. Prior to tonight I was unsure whether I would be able to maintain my concentration during the longueurs of “Flowers and Football Tops” and “Ice Cream Van” unsure whether I'd be under whelmed by the overwhelming guitars at full sustain and ethereal echo vocals. I didn't need to worry Joe turned up. Whilst the jangling crescendos were being built the ghost of Joe Strummer appeared to me, his face came out of the mist catching the light, disappearing again to catch the light once more then merging into James Allen's own visage. A Clash T shirt adorned by Paul Donoghue appeared out of the fog also with his low slung brilliant white bass swinging to and fro beneath it. The face of Strummer appeared once more out of the backlighting & mist hanging above the microphone he nodded to me, the stage went black he was gone.

For a band headlining with only one album in their locker the boys and girl from Glasgow did not disappoint. For me when Glasvegas play it straight and to the point all the constituent parts mesh perfectly and they are worthy of all the praise heaped upon them, when they drift into emotive musical melodrama their power is lost. Ok emotive musical melodrama is all well and good once or twice on a record or in a live set, but their strong well executed songs and the vocal growl of Allen is where Glasvegas are really at. They closed with “Go Square Go” a full blooded rebel rouser, I was roused from my slumber, go see them live in 2009 people. Forza (not Viva) Glasvegas!