The thing about a Tindersticks gig is that you’re surrounded by dedicated followers. Throughout tonight’s show at Shepherd’s Bush Empire, a hushed silence is only broken when the band’s disciples shower the stage in approbation. The cue is a low, mumbled “thank you” from enigmatic frontman Stuart Staples. He’s experienced at controlling this. He’s coy, holding on until the last chord rings out of every tune before he lets us know it’s ok to display our affection.
Tonight feels like a show of two halves. Predictably, the band kicks off with Falling Down a Mountain, the title and opening track from their latest album. It’s a comfortably disjointed opener that puts the seven-piece band to work. But then they seem to slow down, playing slow, moving ballads, one after another. It’s hardly surprising, given Tindersticks’ back catalogue, but for a long time these gentle paeans don’t take off.
All that changes when a resounding version of The Other Side of the World announces itself. Although one of the band’s more recent tracks, this song seems to encompass everything Tindersticks is about. It’s perfect for Staples’ brooding baritone, and it lifts the band into action as they find their momentum.
It stays that way for the rest of the night, as Tindersticks thread seamlessly between new and old. Can We Start Again, the opening track from 1999’s Simple Pleasures, the first of the band’s foray into soul, is a crowd favourite, but given the way people are behaving tonight, a reading from the Old Testament by Staples alone would be enough to send this group of devotees home happy. In their eyes, Tindersticks could do nothing wrong.
Showing posts with label Shepherds Bush Empire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shepherds Bush Empire. Show all posts
Friday, 26 March 2010
Friday, 5 March 2010
The xx @ Shepherd's Bush Empire - 3 March 2010
I must confess, I was unsure coming into tonight. I feared there wasn’t enough depth to The xx to support their live shows. I couldn’t picture how they would translate the simplicity of their album into an engaging performance. The departure of fourth member Baria Qureshi last year also made me edgy: how could this possibly work as a three-piece? But they showed me how – thoroughly.
This was a lesson on focus, on exploiting your assets, even on knowing when to say enough is enough. They’ve showed a maturity beyond their age, using the reduction in band members to refocus on what makes them great.
For The xx, it’s the vocals, and tonight they were perfect. Exposed almost to a point of absurdity, these voices needed to be pinpoint accurate. They were. Romy and Oliver were stark in their aloneness; comfortable in their togetherness. An a cappella show might almost have been warranted.
But then there was the bass. Oh the bass. I can’t remember a moment tonight when my body wasn’t ransacked by the droning, driving depth of the bass, not more so than during Fantasy, which left you almost levitating.
Shit.
It’s addictive.
I haven’t felt that since Radiohead played The Gloaming at Glastonbury in 2003. So utterly engulfed; at the mercy of a vibration.
Right from the start
From the beginning, it was clear The xx has worked on improving the experience of their live performances. They found the right formula for an opening, with a white screen draped across the stage projecting their simple but powerful X graphic as Intro kicked in. That was quickly replaced by flashing silhouettes of the three, working away at their stations until the screen dropped away to reveal them as they segued into Crystallised.
As this track climaxed, it almost sent the crowd into an early disco, but then they did what the album does so well – show restraint. They didn’t let themselves get carried away with themselves. It’s what The xx are about. It’s what makes them so lovable. They’re too clever to lose that in the moment of a live show.
They’ve also learned showmanship, moving together as a three piece to create a tighter unit, and lashing out at just the right moments, such as Oliver’s mallet-ridden finale of Basic Space.
I read something once that said watching The xx live was like watching a corpse on stage. Perhaps they saw the same comment, because surely their performances now can’t be accused of being anything but blinding.
Photography by Chris Parkinson
This was a lesson on focus, on exploiting your assets, even on knowing when to say enough is enough. They’ve showed a maturity beyond their age, using the reduction in band members to refocus on what makes them great.
For The xx, it’s the vocals, and tonight they were perfect. Exposed almost to a point of absurdity, these voices needed to be pinpoint accurate. They were. Romy and Oliver were stark in their aloneness; comfortable in their togetherness. An a cappella show might almost have been warranted.
But then there was the bass. Oh the bass. I can’t remember a moment tonight when my body wasn’t ransacked by the droning, driving depth of the bass, not more so than during Fantasy, which left you almost levitating.
Shit.
It’s addictive.
I haven’t felt that since Radiohead played The Gloaming at Glastonbury in 2003. So utterly engulfed; at the mercy of a vibration.
Right from the start
From the beginning, it was clear The xx has worked on improving the experience of their live performances. They found the right formula for an opening, with a white screen draped across the stage projecting their simple but powerful X graphic as Intro kicked in. That was quickly replaced by flashing silhouettes of the three, working away at their stations until the screen dropped away to reveal them as they segued into Crystallised.
As this track climaxed, it almost sent the crowd into an early disco, but then they did what the album does so well – show restraint. They didn’t let themselves get carried away with themselves. It’s what The xx are about. It’s what makes them so lovable. They’re too clever to lose that in the moment of a live show.
They’ve also learned showmanship, moving together as a three piece to create a tighter unit, and lashing out at just the right moments, such as Oliver’s mallet-ridden finale of Basic Space.
I read something once that said watching The xx live was like watching a corpse on stage. Perhaps they saw the same comment, because surely their performances now can’t be accused of being anything but blinding.
Photography by Chris Parkinson
Thursday, 6 August 2009
Why don't venues matter anymore?
I grew up in a city desperately short of good music venues. When a musician of any worth came to town, they would pack as many people as they could into the local entertainment centre, put on a show - two if their name had any stature - and catch the next plane out. Watching videos of Faith No More at the Brixton Academy and Radiohead at the Astoria in my youth helped me escape, as I dreamt of the day I'd finally be able to watch bands I loved in an atmosphere that complemented their music.
When I came here ten years ago, that was the first thing I did. Granted, my introduction to Brixton was during an early Coldplay gig, but forgive me, I was young. Nonetheless, the ornate interior, the sloping floor and the decent acoustics had me hooked. I've spent countless nights indulging myself at the Academy since, not least a few months ago when Faith No More returned to their spiritual UK home.
And there are other great places to see music in London. Until it was taken from us the Astoria was grimy enough to make you think you were are hardened rocker. Shepherds Bush Empire can put on a show, the surrounds of Somerset House make it a treat for a week every summer and the acoustics of the Royal Festival Hall are enough to bring joy to the most tonedeaf eardrums. I'm sure there are others out there that I can't wait to experience.
So why is it that so many decent acts show such disregard for where they bring their fans? To me, the venue is second only to the setlist. Yet the number of times a great show has been beaten lifeless by an appalling venue astounds me.
The past year is not short of examples: Sigur Ros have a majestic sound that they chose to lose to the hollow, cavernous roof of Alexandra Palace; Antony Heggarty's voice requires an intimacy and delicateness rarely found outside concert halls, yet he and his Johnsons sat us in the sterile concrete walls of Hammersmith Apollo; the moody soundscapes of Stuart Staples and Tindersticks would be best embraced by a lavish theatre, but we were forced to feel like second-rate festival-goers as their headline show made use of a vacant slot in a lifeless tent in Hyde Park. I won't even begin to talk about arenas.
We're so lucky to live in a city with the wealth of fantastic live music venues that London has. I for one would appreciate it if the bands we love would pay a little more attention to it.
When I came here ten years ago, that was the first thing I did. Granted, my introduction to Brixton was during an early Coldplay gig, but forgive me, I was young. Nonetheless, the ornate interior, the sloping floor and the decent acoustics had me hooked. I've spent countless nights indulging myself at the Academy since, not least a few months ago when Faith No More returned to their spiritual UK home.
And there are other great places to see music in London. Until it was taken from us the Astoria was grimy enough to make you think you were are hardened rocker. Shepherds Bush Empire can put on a show, the surrounds of Somerset House make it a treat for a week every summer and the acoustics of the Royal Festival Hall are enough to bring joy to the most tonedeaf eardrums. I'm sure there are others out there that I can't wait to experience.
So why is it that so many decent acts show such disregard for where they bring their fans? To me, the venue is second only to the setlist. Yet the number of times a great show has been beaten lifeless by an appalling venue astounds me.
The past year is not short of examples: Sigur Ros have a majestic sound that they chose to lose to the hollow, cavernous roof of Alexandra Palace; Antony Heggarty's voice requires an intimacy and delicateness rarely found outside concert halls, yet he and his Johnsons sat us in the sterile concrete walls of Hammersmith Apollo; the moody soundscapes of Stuart Staples and Tindersticks would be best embraced by a lavish theatre, but we were forced to feel like second-rate festival-goers as their headline show made use of a vacant slot in a lifeless tent in Hyde Park. I won't even begin to talk about arenas.
We're so lucky to live in a city with the wealth of fantastic live music venues that London has. I for one would appreciate it if the bands we love would pay a little more attention to it.
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