- Independent UK Promoting

COG Review - 4/7/09 (Indelicates/Citadels/Let’s Tea Party)

Club Night Review

Saturday 6^th June at the Lexington

Bands: Indelicates, Citadels, Let’s Tea Party

With record stretches of heat, the death of Michael Jackson and American-engineered political ‘scandal’ in Iran, this is shaping up to be one of the happiest summers for some time. And with the COG gig, as ever, being on the first Saturday of the month, it fell fatefully on the Fourth of July. It was time to celebrate with American traditions; COG was full of apple pie, fireworks, and fat middle-aged men afraid of change who subsequently ate all the pies and had to be carted off for heart transplants at the expense of single mothers. Pregnant, charity-donating single mothers. Key worker, pregnant, charity-donating single mothers with kids with leukaemia. Golden haired, innocent kids, the type who say ‘I love you mummy, don’t be sick. I wish you could have my heart mummy, to make you all better.’ Which leaves the fireworks, ignited on stage from bands like the Indelicates, Citadels and opening act Let’s Tea Party.

Not to be confused with Japanese-experimental metal-rock cult heroes Screaming Tea Party, Let’s Tea Party are, despite also being a threesome, a very different proposition. The mid-tempo Bristol housemates bring power pop to the fore with simple blues-chord tinged guitars, simple yet groovy drumming and a lively lead singer alternating between keyboard and bass duties, belting out –yes – simple lyrics passionately. And it’s this passion that elevates them from the sea of similar no-names proffering boy-band quality ballads under the guise of indie music.

They sound like Drive By Argument’s more relaxed younger brothers, and a highlight was the first of their double A-side single ‘Hot Chip’ – again, simple song structure and standard eighties techno synth, but because it’s played and sung with emotion by a band clearly having a good time, it develops pleasant complexities. It’s stirring, catchy, and potent. It’s clearly defined, and at times it’s quite resplendent pop. They’re welcomingly consistent in their output, and any success they do get will be based on a number of strengths.

And so it’s somewhat strange to find a band that’s technically stronger, but musically worse. Citadels are what’s wrong with a band when they’re talented but don’t have a defined purpose. Maybe there’s a lack of leadership, maybe they’re more interested in keeping everyone second-guessing to show how superior they are, but they try to be Arcade Fire and end up sounding like aimless hippies in a mistimed revival attempt. They’re multi-instrumentalists with plenty of fancy flute and rhythm block hitting and role-swapping. And their instrumentation is indeed interesting, with some experimental soundscapes that really hit the sweet spot, before it all goes brown in the pants when the singing starts.

Scandinavian style harmonic sing-along songs, in the guise of Peter, Bjorn and John and the quite awful I’m From Barcelona, are, like other styles picked up from the vomit of Abba’s drunken legacy, to be cleaned away by a foreigner on minimum wage so the rest of society doesn’t have to think about them. On top of this, the lead singer’s earnest, goody-two-shoes voice compliment his beard in making him seem like one of those open-minded, educated, travelling Greenpeace types that deserve nothing but a Police beating.

In the end they fall short because of the fact that they have an experimental bent (although sometimes experimental just for experimental’s sake) and it works when it comes to music, but not when it comes to songs. The quite hooky ‘Shake’ aside, they were impressive and a letdown all at the same time. Nice beard, though.

But no matter, for time was at hand for the main event. The Indelicates sauntered on, and from the opening piano notes of ‘America’, you know that you’re witnessing something quite special. The Indelicates are different. They serve their rock/pop sandwich with the mustard of morality. They shampoo the ignorant strands of the audience with the detergent of truth. They are pop with a soul, indie with a heart, and rock with balls. Indeed, they’re the ballsiest of ballsy bands, bouncing from one virile political observation to another, destroying mental barriers, that not only you didn’t know you had, but probably never existed in the first place.

‘My heroine is on heroin, Not bad heroin, the good heroin’. With such lyrics, they are clearly the poets of the masses, the voice of a nation. Not since Bowling for Soup has there been a band with such vision, such clarity of purpose, such intelligence in delivery, such excellence in execution. Their all-too-brief set reminded the packed crowd what this gig lark was all about, moving from one radio-friendly piece of genius to another. They obliterate all before them until you realise you are staring at the nucleus of indie music itself.

People started putting their sunglasses on indoors, because that’s where the sun was really shining. I’m off to return all my CDs, because other songs are just not good enough to be called music anymore. Until next time,

Muhammad Odeh