Paul Weller

Paul Weller

Roundhouse, London, March 19th

The lager pumps are in overdrive, Liam Gallagher roams the venue in search of VIP sanctuary; the Roundhouse spins with anticipation of the latest Resurrection Of Weller. The glorious glam-punk reinvention of his ‘Wake Up The Nation’ era sparked talk of a creative resurgence, but we’ve been there before. After each of his [i]Doctor Who[/i]-like reanimations he’s slipped inexorably back into self-indulgence and MOR, be it the punting soul-pop of The Style Council or the dreary roots rock of the late ’90s that helped beat Britpop to death with a moss-stained moccasin. But with rumours abounding that Weller will be playing his brilliant new album ‘Sonik Kicks’ in full, signs are hopeful that he may finally have taken to challenging his audience like a true legend.

Happily, he’s finally cracked the whole ‘continued brilliance’ malarkey. ‘Sonik Kicks’ is a revelation; Weller’s pimped out in a grey mullet and suit that makes him look like he’s come straight from a Kray’s funeral, his trademark Motown, soul and folk-pop leanings drenched in a motorik electronic scree and a kraut-psych thrum that makes the first hour feel like Weller’s fiddling around under the bonnet of the zeitgeist for the first time in decades. Backed by a quintet of alien strings, ‘Green’ is all spoken-word Berlin Bowie verses and space-rock swirl; ‘That Dangerous Age’ imagines Gorillaz covering ‘Tracy Jacks’, shoo-wop style; ‘The Attic’ is psychedelic soul that’s as Motown as Marvin, but deftly breezy too.

With barely a between-song utterance, Weller pounds out this modernist but tuneful mêlée, tapping tambourine through the Eastern-tinged sonic skyride of ‘Drifters’. He does dust off The Jam’s ‘English Rose’, but even so, the acoustic set inevitably feels dull by comparison. And despite cracking out ‘Wake Up The Nation’ in the final electric portion and getting Miles Kane on for ‘Echoes Around The Sun’, matching his hero snarl for snarl and receiving his nu-soul baton with aplomb, there still has to be a lengthy, Clapton-esque fretwank to the fuck-awful ‘Foot Of The Mountain’.

But for the most part Weller’s remaking his own bed here, full of renewed vigour and invention, bravely discarding familiar tunes in favour of setting his year zero (loosely) at 2008 and only playing what he calls tonight “the greatest hits of tomorrow”. It might frustrate those rapturously flinging their lager to a grudging finale of ‘Town Called Malice’, but this is Weller 4.0, and the Podfather demands the world follow.

[i]Mark Beaumont[/i]