Much is made of the bountiful merits of The Brudenell Social Club. The implication being that it’s unpretentious décor, plentiful supply of tables & soft furnishings and delightfully quaint tendency to supplement its cutting edge acts with the odd round of bingo or other such bygone pastime, gives it some kind of hyper-cool retro-chic.
But in order for it to be considered retro it surely needs to have moved forward and then looked back? The reality is that it just hasn’t been updated since the early seventies. Not that this is a bad thing at all, this frozen time capsule subconsciously paying tribute to a forgotten age of entertainment where image counted for little, stands out as something of an oasis in a landscape of identikit bars and venues with their clean lines and city-priced drinks.
It is therefore appropriate that the first person to pay tribute to this fine institution (for which this gig is a fundraiser to save it from closure) is Mr. BENJAMIN WETHERILL, a man who in the broadest sense shares many common values with both the venue and tonight’s hosts, The Music Guru. The latter being the endearingly old-fashioned webzine that has remained stoically committed to imbedding in the locale’s consciousness some of the exceptionally talented, if not necessarily uber-cool, acts that occasionally slip through the net of the more populist music press.
All three seem wilfully unconcerned with the flighty clamour for the fashionista high ground, preferring instead to concentrate on doing what they do, very well indeed. There is nothing remotely contemporary about either the act, the venue or the hosts and all three are the better for it. In fact its almost as if they’re all inhabiting some kind of parallel universe, an existence in tandem with our own.
Throughout the course of the evening we will experience banjos, breathtaking harmonies, guitar trashing, vintage 70s funk, wall-of-sound loveliness and more Harp lager (when was the last time you saw Harp lager?) for under £2 a pint than you care to shake a stick at, with not a skinny tie or daft haircut in sight. None of this seems indicative of the current era. It’s a different world. And I like it. In fact as soon as I’m done here I’m off to apply for duel citizenship.
There are very few things in life that are always more incredible than you imagine. No matter how much they are hyped and no matter how much you prepare yourself to be unmoved, they always catch you off guard. Like visiting the Grand Canyon, watching Schindler’s List in the cinema or seeing BENJAMIN WETHERILL live. And if you have to choose between the three, I’d go for the latter. It’s just one of the things that everyone needs to do in their lifetime.
He takes to the stage with typical understatement. Ambling on, fiddling around, and then easing into his first song whilst everyone realises that the guitar isn’t plugged in. Funnily enough it doesn’t seem to matter. Wetherill has one of those voices that you’d quite happily pay a fiver to hear read the phone directory. After some technical re-jigging its back on track and what follows is a simply stunning collection of original pieces and re-worked traditional songs spanning every era from the turn of the century, through George Formby music hall, to a radically reinterpreted version of Queen’s Crazy Little Thing Called Love. However, best of all, is the new single Orange & Silver. Joined briefly by the wonderful FRAN RODGERS, the sound that emanates forth from the stage is something so captivating and delicate you worry for its safety in the wider world. But in the secure confines of the Brudenell in front of an appreciative audience it is out of harm's way and free to work its magic. Spellbinding.
Somewhat less understated are CHICHINO who, after the first of this evening’s raffles naturally, impress with their super-tight, authentic slick-funk and rather charming flashing logo at the front of the stage. Although the occasional Stevie Wonder and Dee-Lite cover teeters dangerously on the brink of the unironically kitsch, the majority of the original material flows smoothly through a largely enjoyable set.
Like a lot of pure funk, with little in the way of external influence it can all sound a little samey after a while, but if this kind of thing is your bag, then CHICHINO have a lot to recommend them. Expertly executed, an entertaining presence and a drummer who looks like he’s on sabbatical from the Scissor Sisters.
Nikoli, on the other hand, have about as much in common with the SCISSOR SISTERS as PATTI SMITH has with Boris Johnson. Forget what you may have occasionally heard on record, NIKOLI live is an entirely different proposition. Out goes the delicately constructed, detail-focussed subtleties and styling; and in comes a whole truckload of primal brute force. It’s always a thrilling proposition when a band can harness an entirely different persona in their songs live, and none more so than Nikoli.
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Bludgeoning the audience into submission within the first bar of Gently Talk Me Down, singer, guitarist and chief architect of noise Tim Hann continues much in the same vein for a further half hour, wistfully sighing his melodies over the top of the powerhouse of sound underneath with the regular assistance of some wonderful Jim Brunger harmonies from behind the kit.
Another raffle and its BEAUTIFUL FEET to start the build up to the grand finale. Or that’s the ideal presumably. BEAUTIFUL FEET they may have, but beautiful melodies seem to have eluded them. BEAUTIFUL FEET are one of those bands who aim to play slow, occasionally plodding soundscapes that build from little unimpressive acorns into glorious Technicolor soundscapes like FOUR DAY HOMBRE, or VIB GYOR, or iLiKETRAiNS. Except they don’t. They play slow, occasionally plodding soundscapes that build from little unimpressive acorns into big unimpressive acorns.
In a word, it’s dull. You can see what they are trying to do, and good luck to them in doing it. But on first listen the songs simply don’t cut the mustard, there is not enough in the way of original ideas, or clever shifts in emphasis, or quality melody to suggest anything other than the wholly unspectacular. Shame. Because if they wrote some better songs they could be a very fine band indeed as all the raw elements are there. So let’s hope they do.
However, it does act as something of a monumental contrast when Samsa explode onto the stage. A quick glace at these chaps at the bar and you wouldn’t think them capable of sending food back at a restaurant, such is the general demeanour of mild pleasantness, let alone of creating mass carnage on an apocalyptic scale. But this is the task that they gleefully set about delivering circa 10.15pm, making pretty light work of it at that.
SAMSA are the living embodiment of all that can be achieved with a three piece. Not a resource or note is wasted with all three members singing as well as taking it in turns to have a bash on the vintage keyboard set up centre-centre, equidistant between the holy trinity of guitar, bass and drums.
SAMSA’s songs are the musical equivalent of having a military testing base next to a fireworks factory – a series of small tightly controlled explosions wrought with an impending sense of danger knowing that any minute they threaten to career out of control into one almighty cataclysmic bang. Which they frequently do.
But what tunes they are! Its all very well mastering the art of the cleverly constructed soundscape, but if all that lies beneath it is a fairly vapid, wishy-washy, non-starter of a tune that ATHLETE would dismiss on grounds of blandness, then there’s not a lot of point other than clever-clever muso-points.
Not so SAMSA. Every track is a winner. From the brooding menace of Animals to the impassioned bawl of Sweet Disease with that killer riff, they ooze quality from start to finish. Oli smoulders under a mop of blond tresses, contorting and angling with every Tyson-like punch from the rhythm section, the very essence of the perfect complex front man.
In stark contrast bassist Harry, all foppish sophistication, patrols the stage as if it’s just a minor investment in a vast estate, pausing occasionally to sneer some perfectly pitched backing vocals into the microphone. Whilst Jamie… well… Jamie plays the drums. But boy does he play the drums, clattering and pounding through the collective cacophony occasionally craning tortoise-like over the shells to add the top-harmonies to the glorious racket beneath.
All in all, a master class in the art of the epic.
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