Standing in a circle as if they can't bear to miss themselves play, these four men are relaxed like it's just another Friday night of beer and chord progressions in singer Scott Levesque's garage...
Shambling, ambling, blushingly shy good humour – when a band sidle up out of the underground lo on fi and high on life, named like a gang of aw-shucks hayseeds and holding a clutch of eggshell songs, you can expect a certain amount of endearingly messy shuffling. Typically, in a world where nothing ever comes out quite right, Wheat buck the trend with casual cool, shining with fresh-minted charisma and capable of making their second UK show something between a random act of kindness and an intoxicating, rejuvenative draught in the veins of US songwriting.
Standing in a circle as if they can’t bear to miss themselves play, these four men are relaxed like it’s just another Friday night of beer and chord progressions in singer Scott Levesque’s garage. Sure, they laugh when things get too loose, but you can always feel the fire-eyed intent, the absolute conviction. Quite right, when you have such lovely, lucid songs, glowing like Super-8 memories; the amorous surrender of ‘Girl Singer’, Scott’s voice cracking like a sun-dried Steve Malkmus, ‘Summer’ looping round and round Rick Brennan’s daydream guitar, the Guided By Voices desolation of ‘Soft Polluted Blacks’. “An acoustic guitar just isn’t sexy, is it?” smiles Scott, patently wrong for the first time tonight.
Adding the forcefield to the pastoral idyll, Wheat provide both the raw material and the pure grain spirit. Drink deep.