Issue 52 / February 2015

28
Bido Lito! February 2015
Reviews
before the hosts suss I’m from Newcastle
and check/destroy my forged invitation. SAINT
SAVIOUR knows the perks of pocket-sized class,
and it’s kind of cute to see her four-piece string
section pluck away on the balcony above her,
as dignified as crows on a telephone wire. She
must’ve shifted her entourage around every
stage on this tour (of which tonight is the grand
finale) differently, packing her Late Quartet, the
backing singers, and Mr BILL RYDER-JONES
himself into the crannies of smaller venues.
The joint headliners collaborated recently
on Saviour’s In The Seams, and BR-J gives
fine, amiable support to a set of measured
stereoscopy. Our leading lady is impressive
but hamstrung by atmosphere, gliding just
below rote melodies, maybe stiff with emotion.
She holds her young band together without
dominating them, though there’s a sense
she’s conforming too much to the stateliness
of her music. She stands up for Devotion after
showing some self-deprecation in Sad Kid¸
which lampoons NME cover photos. The former
track is her best so far until she unleashes a
scream at the end of Just You and affrights the
stately crawl she’s been keeping up.
Bill Ryder-Jones isn’t in a hurry either. “A
bad wind blows in my heart” he sings again
and again, resignedly, in his opening number,
hood disclosing a sliver of his incredibly boyish
face. It’s a languid opening complimented by
the swathe of family members and Coral fans
that’ve turned out tonight. As he fends off
his rowdy audience with the air of someone
who knows just how popular he is, the gig
becomes a love-in, a spectacle of appreciation
for one of the men oiling the city’s musical
gears. This kind of familiarity could be no fun
at all – exposure isn’t exactly something BR-J is
lacking these days. But the hour really picks up
as a homecoming and an ode to his ongoing
passion for all things Liverpool. He indulges a
request for Lemon Tree, teases his dad for not
coming to a show since he last played with
Arctic Monkeys, and premiers a new song about
Catharine Street, fitting in a fifteen-minute,
acoustic detour to boot. By The Moonlight
draws attention to how his delivery hangs off
chords like an afterthought, a quietly tragic
song that finds a perfect mate in Seabird. One
of his lyrics asks whether we’ll be there to catch
him if the band plays too fast; this must be a
joke, since even Keane are more pyrotechnic,
though nowhere near as honest or interesting.
And that’s how the minutes pass: a parade of
asides and effacement, deflecting the residual
feelings for a bygone pack of teens into the
trembling light of the future; a heart-warming
salute to Bill Ryder-Jones’ impact on the simple
pleasures of good music.
Josh Potts / @joshpjpotts
Bill Ryder-Jones (Glyn Akroyd)
THE SILVER APPLES
Strange Collective – Whyte Horses – Sankofa
EVOL @ The Kazimier
SANKOFA arrive on stage to kick-start this
evening’s trip through psychedelia’s various
phases. Not the most outlandish outfit,
considering what’s to come, but still definitely
a strong start. Their aesthetic is direct (with no
disrespect intended) and could be interpreted
as slightly innocuous. This is powerful, but safe,
rock music. Nevertheless, their set is delivered
by a band of enthused young chaps who each
have a wealth of talent. A solid start to the
proceedings.
Next up come STRANGE COLLECTIVE with their
energetic onslaught of grunge-infused head
music. The bandmates have a live chemistry that
verges on the telepathic as they plough through
a slew of relentlessly catchy and accessible
tracks. This is an exhilarating set with all the zeal
of warring soldiers; the crowd is truly captured.
The live six-limbed beast that is WHYTE
HORSES displays itself across the stage as the
third act of the night. This is the traditional
quartet: drums, guitar, bass and guitar/vocals,
with the addition of two female backing
vocalists and percussion players. Whyte Horses
are very definable indeed; their sound neatly
fits within the categorisations of dream pop
and psychedelia, which unfortunately proves
their undoing. Everything about this group fits
this persona: the decorative stage adornments
of floral patterns and colourful stage wear, the
tripped-out mesh of visuals above the stage, the
melancholic and over-all simplistic, tame songs –
all contributing factors to what makes the band
resemble, almost too closely, a dropout project
from the 1960s. They receive a warm reception
from the crowd and play a strong set of songs
but the problem - for me at least - is that the very
heart of psychedelic music is supposedly pinned
upon lateral wanderings and breaking through
accepted musical boundaries. Whyte Horses,
unfortunately, aren’t breaking any boundaries.
They’re playing out a fitting stereotype of 60s
dissident hippies.
Finally, we have SILVER APPLES. Simeon Coxe,
looking like an extra from a Clint Eastwood
western, strolls onto the stage and helms his
monstrous, stacked collection of synthesisers
and drum machines. From the outset, the
performance is unyielding: a cacophony of
feedback and fevered beats certainly makes for a
unique spat of tracks. Silver Apples are notorious
for having been one of the first groups, in the
1960s, to fuse minimalistic electronic music
with accepted rock trends. It’s now gone forty
years since their inception and they still sound
unlike anything anyone has heard before. Misty
Mountain is the first in the set and throughout
the performance we are treated to a glut of true
strangeness, with songs such as Oscillations,
The Silver Apples (Glyn Akroyd)
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