June 1, 2000

London Notting Hill Arts Club

As a member of [a]Nirvana[/a]-fjted Scots band [B]The Vaselines[/B], [B]Frances McKee[/B] sang of killing pussycats and making muffs and hats out of their fur, and of riding raw young men called Rory.

As a member of Nirvana-fjted Scots band The Vaselines, Frances McKee sang of killing pussycats and making muffs and hats out of their fur, and of riding raw young men called Rory. Ten years after such cheeky misbehaviour, we find her no less inspired, but certainly considerably darker.

Maybe it's just the instrumentation, swapping fizzing Velvets-y tunes for a forest of cello, flute, acoustic strum and keyboard whirl, but there's a definite feeling of autumnal Southern Gothic afoot here (something of an achievement, considering Suckle are playing on the hottest afternoon so far this year). Sure, Frances is still a wickedly grinning pixie behind the mic, but songs like 'Saturn' deal more in shadows than magic, more in sorrow than joy.

Which is not to say that the delectable melancholy, wrapped in a soft-focus cotton wool of discordant orchestration, isn't coloured with Frances' trademark vicious humour. But, as the flute-driven rumble of new single 'To Be King' attests, a more dreamy, tear-stricken thrum is Suckle's chosen specialist subject. Recalling, say, Throwing Muses or Belly's dreamlike folky nightmares, Suckle flower like a bruise, linger like a dolorous hangover, strike deep, and seek to unsettle. Rory and his pussycats can rest easy. Frances has thrown aside such childish things.