Just the thing to cure our hangovers...
It’s the night after the [a]NME Awards[/a] and our head feels like it’s got the Crazy Frog ringtone living inside it. This in mind, we’re asking that tonight the bands not only deliver glorious music but also soothe our aching skulls. First up is Swedish songstress Frida who’s signed to The Concretes’ Licking Fingers label. There’s a touch of warble-folk weirdo Regina Spektor to her, even if her voice isn’t quite enough like a voodoo-practising forest pixie to group her with Joanna Newsom and the rest of the quirky-somethings. Still, a much-needed brain massage.
Lock up your sanity! It’s the Mystery Jets and their pot-bashing, prog-thrashing puzzle-pop. Lead singer Blaine thwacks colanders and hubcaps, while his Andy Warhol-a-like father Henry uses opener
‘Zoo Time’ as an excuse for future-fucking synth noises. As for a hangover cure, though, we’ve no idea if it works.
Our brain’s too busy entering another dimension where our minds converse through jellified Lego bricks to notice.
Now John Hassall is, by all accounts, a lovely chap but that doesn’t excuse Yeti. There are decent moments here, like the Byrds-esque harmonies on ‘Merry Go Round’. But if this pub-rock bollocks is what happens when you rid the skaghead element from your band then pass us the needle. Oh, and it doesn’t help our headache, either.
Salvation arrives in the form of The Concretes, who tame the more lairy elements of the crowd with their elegant swoon-pop. The chugging fuzz of ‘Can’t Hurry Love’, an amazing swing (yes, swing!) version of ‘Seems Fine’ and a graceful, orchestral waltz through ‘Warm Night’ leave people spellbound. You’d never believe that, 30 seconds after they’ve left the stage, everyone reverts to booze-mode, legs it to the bar and embarks on an almighty Club NME piss-up. But they do. Consider our hangovers well and truly cured.