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On a grim London night, in the land of make believe, it was a night
of
men and boys. The very young and very hotly tipped Kooks did little to
convince that they were the next big thing vis-a-vis a major label
bidding
war which Virgin won. They seemed surprisingly shy. Granted some of
them are
still in their teens, in relatively lean teen bodies playing one of the
biggest venues of their young lives.
Frontman Luke Pritchard did his
best in
an animated skip about, thrash around the stage kind of way. A good
try, but
he smacked of nerves as he kept his head down and face guarded by his
curly
fringe, consistently fluffing some pretty foreign in between song
chatter.
Still there was promise, which Virgin have rightly spotted, with
some
much heavier, snottier numbers which should eventually dispel the
Supergrass comparisons. Even so, it was often lost in an
appalling
sound setup which was consistently reduced to spitty cymbals and
overpowering bass. The better moments tended to be the explicitly
melodic
ones (In Love, Matchbox). A bit more gigging, a better soundman and
better
diet is definitely on the menu.
There's a period of time when the brain contracts due to lack of
neural
activity. The eyes roll upwards to the to the left just as oxygen and
stimuli get dangerously low in the upper cortex. New stimuli has to
occur
otherwise you end up like Muhammed Ali. But it often does, though this
is
more commonly known as daydreaming and you experience a hell of a lot
of it
watching Nine Black Alps go through their rigorous motions.
If The Kooks were shy iccle boys, Nine Black Alps are teenagers who have just
discovered drink, dope and Nevermind. Like many a teenager in their
first
proper rock band there is a strict code to follow - intros populated
by
scuzzy Sonic Youth squalls (complete with drumstick molestation
of
the fret board). Wiry sweat soaked hair. Guitars low slung and,
imperatively, crushing wind milling followed by infliction of painful
looking personal injury the Opus Dei would be proud of, though
involving
instruments or huge stage dives. It'll be a surprise if this bunch last much
longer. Then again there was a significant sect of 14-year-olds to the
left
bobbing and moshing cheerfully. Sam Forrest was either patronising us
or
cleverly addressing his real audience with a sly "thanks kids."
Fresh faced, clean shaven and with a twinkle in his eye, Rivers
Cuomo has
a spectacular inability to physically age. Mentally he is a mystery.
This
was the fourth time in as many years I had gone to a Weezer show.
Cuomo's
mood had always determined the band on the night. In year one Cuomo was
shy
and slowly learning to return to the stage. In year two he was a coked
up
mess. In year three he was a grumpy, bearded autocrat. In year four, he
seemed reborn.
He was now suddenly embracing the spotlight he so often shunned. He
was
engaging the fans who so endeared him, yet whom he could not seem to
commune
with. He jarred and struck classic rock poses playing off his geekish
demure. Is this Rivers Cuomo? Is it another schizo moment? And then he
went
back, "way back to the first song, from the first album." Elation as
blue
light fused with the magical melody of My Name Is Jonas. They had
already
dropped Undone just two songs in. But they just kept coming - No One
Else,
Why Bother, El Scorcho.
You had the pinch yourself to make sure this was real. But nothing
could
have prepared you for the moment Cuomo discreetly crept up to the
balcony
during the interval. "Over here!" he hollered. Sure enough there he was
with
an acoustic guitar at the front row of the balcony for Island In The
Sun.
Remarkably he still had time to race back down and trade places with
Pat
Wilson for Photograph.
Whatever has Cuomo going again, I don't think there was a single
soul in
the Apollo who didn't hope that it stayed. Maybe it's a new lease of
life,
maybe it's some kind of special K. Or perhaps he's finally grown up.
Maybe
this shy, slightly troubled boy is now his own man.
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