The Glaswegian pop pervs show the new breed how to reach a state of nirvana.
Six months ago Liverpool’s Static Gallery played host to the interweb’s current band of choice. Expectation was high – extremely high – but Best Coast failed to deliver. They weren’t poor, more flat and distinctly underwhelming – a fact brought home by their cut-off denim followers folding their arms, twindling their bobblehats and shuffling their deckshoes more to keep awake than in stimulated pleasure.
The Vaselines live at Static Gallery, Liverpool
Tonight we’re back at the scene of the hipster crime, and the parallels are alarming – dirty rock and roll with a heart rooted in playful pop indebted to that boy Cobain.
The Glaswegian’s share a lo-fi jangle, the sweet interplay of harmonies and cheeky lyrical innuendos about pussycats with their California offspring.
But where the LA weedtoker’s Bethany Cosentino and partner (Wavves‘) Nathan Williams may believe the rhetoric suggesting they’re the new Kurt and Courtney, it’s the band that influenced Nirvana that prove there’s more substance than soundbites.
Bristling with naughty energy Frances McKee is the yin to Eugene Kelly‘s uber-cool understated charm; she all giggly and coy, he an impenetrable masterclass in keeping your cards well and truly hidden. This fission is played out perfectly throughout, not least in Dying For It as Frances swings and smiles inbetween verses while Eugene stays rock still hammering his fretboard.
McKee’s naughtiness goes full blown early on introducing her band and insisting it’s bass player Michael’s turn for groupie attention – of which there’s evidently several interested parties in Liverpool tonight – before telling us in no uncertain terms that there’ll be no encore as the band need to get it on back in their Premier Inn. Presumably Lenny Henry would approve.
In between it’s all first-rate smash and grab perfect pop. The Day I Was A Horse, is a mini riot of clattering bar-room stomp recalling an amphetamine-addled Hotel Yorba, Sex Sux (Amen) is The Beatles by way of Mudhoney, Son Of A Gun and Molly’s Lips sends the kids in the ‘fudge packin, flower sniffin’, crack smokin’, kitty pettin’ tees to a state of near oblivion while Oliver Twisted has a pair of front-row old-timers kissing, hugging and licking like there’s no tomorrow. Aww, drunk heterosexual men, there’s nowt like the combination of your favourite band and ten pints to get the juices flowing.
There’s more late night tales recounted before the scuzzed-up Monsterpussy (apparently their kitten used to hide under the floorboards for fear of being deflowered by Eugene) but it’s the yearning Jesus Don’t Want Me For A Sunbeam which really packs a punch. Delivered without Kurt’s slur, all pretty vowels and McKee’s virginal harmonies, it’s a real treat for ears.
An hour plus of salacious revelry draws to a close with their signature tune, Dum Dum, encapsulating all that’s good about The Vaselines – young they’re not but they’re still incredible fun; a pair of ‘Don’t Care Bears, that’ll get on their knees and do whatever they please’. Amen to that.
The Vaselines: Sex With An X
The Vaselines: Jesus Don’t Want Me For A Sunbeam (live)
All photos courtesy of Sakura Zilla.