It’s not something in particular, I’ve come to realise: but just that sense of electricity which comes from a truly great live music experience. That feeling that something is going on in the room that just can't be replicated anywhere else. This is something I experienced last weekend, on a rare night off to see one of my favourite new bands…
Picture the scene: you find yourself in the back room of a small hotel, having wound your way through a maze of corridors towards the object of this particular evening’s desire; the up and coming band out of Carlisle: Hardwicke Circus.
Rather than being a prompt for one of the less popular Edinburgh fringe improvisational comedy shows, the above is in fact how my evening began last Friday. I was accompanied by my wife, Claire, who seemed to have little faith in my choice of band or venue. This wasn’t helped by the fact that she had refused to listen to any of their songs ahead of time; in the same vein as how she refuses to watch a trailer for a film for fear of ‘revealing too much’ about the proceedings. Regardless, she and I were both committed as soon as we pushed our way through the 'backstage' door at the Green Hotel, Kinross. The sight we were greeted with was curious to say the least.
The bar/seating area felt more like we were intruding on someone's front room than a music venue, but the memorabilia on display certainly made it clear that we were in the presence of people who loved and respected great music. I can imagine myself in the shoes of a young band faced with the many years of music history scaled high across the many walls, and feeling oppressed by its sheer volume. The names of rock gods like Pink Floyd, Neil Young, Jethro Tull, The Who, and CSNY dominated the walls. Big shoes to fill for any musician.
We made our way to the bar, partly to get a drink, but mostly to give us something to do as, although we had arrived only 15 minutes before the show was billed to begin, there were only a handful of other patrons here. We ordered our customary non-alcoholic beverages (a soda and lime and a fresh-orange and lemonade). In the interests of suspense, I will refrain from telling you which of us ordered what.
As 8pm approached, we moved through to the auditorium, taking our seats strategically close enough to the stage so that we appeared at least relatively keen, but far enough away so as to stay relatively covert.
The venue was listed as seating 120, intimate by any measure. However, we noticed that considerably fewer than half the seats had been filled by the time the band was due to start. Hardly encouraging, either for the few who had turned up, and particularly for the band themselves. Claire advised me that she was beginning to worry about the less-than-sold-out nature of the show. I assured her that, even if it wasn't packed and the atmosphere was lacking, our outing would at least be original.
Two band members finally walked on stage after, what I can only assume must have been a short calculated delay. The term 'fashionably late', I have decided, must have been derived from bands on the gig circuit. All anxieties about any dent in confidence that the band might suffer as a result of the lowish turnout was instantly dissipated by the cool attitude of the duo: brothers Jonny (Guitar, Vocals) and Tom (Drums, Vocals) Foster. They announced that the rest of the band would be joining them after a brief acoustic set, which, they half-jokingly said was to practise their singing for the new album.
What followed was a charming, raw, and obviously well-rehearsed study in sibling harmony, old-fashioned proper songwriting, and good-natured patter. It was obvious that the brothers had been singing together for decades, and the acoustic songs felt equally like a celebration of that union as a journey through the songs themselves. The vocals were a refreshing combination of a well-honed sound that can only possibly be produced by siblings with a natural ear, and that raw warmth that comes from a vocal talent that hasn't been polluted by over-training. Jonny's guitar playing was also a masterclass in song-serving musicianship. Nothing flashy, but obviously expertly distilled from listening to countless hours of great guitar players who knew how to write songs. Needless to say, they appeared to be right at home the instant they began singing. I glanced to my side to check Claire’s reaction, and was glad to see she was also beaming.
After 4 or 5 acoustic songs, the remaining band members were introduced, and the show proper began. It was everything I had hoped it would be and more: blazingly energetic, fun, and incredibly dynamic. Every member exuded confidence, playing their part exactly as they should, and displaying just the right amount of bravado in turn.
The frontman, Jonny, particularly carried himself with the air of someone who had been leading bands for decades. He had the look of an early-90s art-college grad: ready to express his disgust at contemporary music, the latest in fashion, and any form of modern technology. His voice, a charisma-riddled fusion of countless antecedents: the pent-up rage of The Clash’s Joe Strummer, Elvis Costello’s smooth irony, and Billy Bragg’s straight-talk. His mostly rhythm-based guitar was sparing and tasteful, but occasionally displaying cutting, raw, bluesy lead play with an unmistakable classic telecaster sound. I could not have asked for a more entertaining performance. Every move made, and word spoken, was like watching the slow eruption of a modern folk hero. He isn’t cool, he hates cool. And yet, he is cool.
Any decent gig is, of course, nothing without good songs, and boy do they have them in scores. Their music is some of the freshest, most original, and most enjoyable music I've listened to in years. They sound like the perfect blend of all the best bands of the last half century: everything from Dylan and The Band, to The Clash and The Ramones. Their songs have the sentimental wist of The Cure and The Boomtown Rats, and the anthemic aura of The Eagles and Springsteen’s ballads. Whether played in a bedroom or a stadium, I think they would hold the same weight: sheer, unfiltered, and unfettered, good music.
Once the gig was over, we moved to the back of the room to check out the merch and chat with the band. They were all, as you’d expect from an independent band from Cumbria, exceedingly humble and very attentive. I left the conversation with more questions than answers, which I suppose is exactly the experience you should have when talking to great musicians.
After all, what’s the point of art if you can understand it?
The band had just emerged off the back of a South African tour, a feat I think that few independent bands today could pull off, and it showed. Every aspect of their personalities made it clear that they possessed the gall to pull off almost anything. There is a certain confidence that comes from playing gigs to every crowd from back-alley bars to festival slots. At that point, nothing can surprise, stop, or tame you. You have seen the world through the lens of every drunken idiot who has the firm belief that he can do better, and you have won them over one by one. I am familiar with this experience, in my own small way, from playing to crowds across Scotland. Often the start of a gig feels more like a trial than a performance. The musician, the accused; the audience, the jury. You live and die by your songs.
Most importantly, of course, Claire had clearly enjoyed herself. From the moment the gig started, and all through the 2-hour set, we both felt instantly at ease in ourselves and with each other. We had been to gigs before that we had both enjoyed, but this, for me at least, was the first time it really felt like a mutual experience. I often found myself watching Claire more than the band itself, feeling that seeing her reaction enhanced my own. When she smiled, I smiled; when she swayed, I swayed; when she laughed, I laughed. Every chord, snare-hit, and note, felt like steps on a journey we were taking together. This is the most special part about live music: the ways it allows us to explore ourselves and the relationships we hold with others.
Of course, none of this meandering, faux-journalistic mysticism occurred to me while I was actually experiencing the gig. I was thinking about the same things that anyone does when they’re watching great art unfold: practically nothing. That’s what good artists do: they take you away from whatever it is your brain wants you to think or feel at the time; floating you upwards to some simpler, better reality. A reality where everything is right, everything in its place: nothing is wasted. A great gig isn’t a collection of songs, or ‘artistry’. Often, it’s simple, right-place-right-time, good-quality music brought together with love, passion, and a hope that it might make things a little better. It’s a vibe, a feeling, and can’t be pinned down. A great gig is that which can’t be described by words alone: it demands your attention, picks you up, takes you on a journey, and gives you something you write home about. That’s what I wanted to do here, and I very much hope it’s given you something to write home about.
If nothing else, I hope it’s converted a few more listeners to the band. They really are a triumph.
All Power,
Finlay
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