March 30, 1999

Leeds Town & Country Club

Perhaps, to damn them with the faintest praise, [B]Stereophonics[/B] are the very best a very ordinary band can be...

What, exactly, does Kelly Jones want from life? As 'Just Looking' stretches out and yearns, quivers with that nebulous sense of longing that runs through so many Stereophonics songs, he sings, "There's things I've had, there's things I want to have...".

But what are they? He goes to America, but it's all so disappointing: no better than what he's seen on TV, and LA's as tacky as Blackpool. He goes back home, then writes songs of suffocating domestic entrapment, of quietly seething, inarticulate rage. His words sound big and emotional when he sings them, but in the cold light of day all they actually reveal is that men drink alone when they're down; a securely masculine, internalised grief.

And now here he is, top of the world, leading a band shaping up to be Britain's biggest rock phenomenon since Oasis, confronting an adoring crowd with blankness and platitudes that confirm him as the most understated, uncharismatic stadium rock god in history. Thank you, Leeds, and goodnight.

There is something perversely fascinating about Stereophonics and their triumphalism-free triumphs. At times tonight, they're too dull to be true, so prosaic it seems like a contrivance, these fanfares by the common man. A twirled drumstick from Stuart Cable is the only concession to superstar extravagance. Occasionally, they are quite terrible, flapping about like a mischief-free Wonder Stuff on 'More Life In A Tramp's Vest' or lumbering joylessly through The Kinks' 'Sunny Afternoon'. It's then the suspicion niggles that their massive appeal stems from Jones making the art of being a rock star look like a job, and a job slightly less interesting than yours, at that. Two hours' hard graft never killed anyone, but it very nearly bored a few to death.

And yet, and yet... There's a grace to the horny-handed vignettes of 'Local Boy In The Photograph' and 'I Stopped To Fill My Car Up' that many of their more-lauded contemporaries would love to harness, and there's Jones' fine voice, so much more soulful - in spite of himself - than, to pluck a name at random, James Dean Bradfield's stuffed-pig squealing. Why pick on Stereophonics so much? Even that omnipresent lack of mystique seems irrelevant when they take such artless base materials and transform them into a simple, moving song like 'Traffic'.

Of course, in the abstract, we want more from bands: more adventure, more unearthly glamour, more tilting at windmills. And, of course, Kelly Jones wants more, too, though he transparently has no idea of precisely what he wants or how he can get it. Perhaps, to damn them with the faintest praise, Stereophonics are the very best a very ordinary band can be.

There are no water-into-wine miracles here, for sure. But there are worse things than turning meat and potatoes into a strangely satisfying meal. Aren't there?