Post by flum on Mar 29, 2005 17:03:26 GMT -5
Branding was the name of the game Monday night in Edinburgh as the Jim Beam tour rolled into town. It was hard to get too excited about a tour which not only gave the crap bourbon prominence on the tickets – the band names didn’t even get a mention – but also had had the Queens of Noise on the bill – who’s act consists of playing records and dancing along to them badly, something which I do pretty much every night in the privacy of my own home without ever thinking that it’d be a good career option – and were actually proud of the fact, plastering it all over the posters, rather than keeping quiet about it as any sensible person would have done. But despite all the bad things, The Raveonettes were headlining so I decided to go along and see them in action.
Unfortunately before the sumptuous desert, we had to endure a starter and main-course seemingly taken from a cookbook entitled “1001 Disgusting Recipes Involving Broccoli”. First up were Boxer Rebellion who presumably, on going to the tune cupboard and finding it to be bare, instead went and helped themselves to the overflowing drawer marked Dull and Derivative Indie. They’re the sort of band that you genuinely wonder why they bother existing: surely they must have listened back to themselves and thought “Fuck, we’re really bringing nothing at all to the musical table, are we? Maybe we should just give it up and get jobs as accountants just like our mothers want us to”. Following them were The Dogs who gain points by at least having some energy and passion, not being Boxer Rebellion and also for having a couple of tunes that bordered on the memorable, but promptly lose them all again by ultimately being a bit shit, and for the fact that the lead singer, as he was in Scotland, wore a tartan tie like a patronising cock.
Anyway, once that crap was out the way, any band would have probably sounded excellent, but the headliners didn’t need such artificial boosts being, as they are, fucking ace. Sounding like a sixties girl group gone bad, even though they’re 80% male, they’d be more suited to playing in a haunted diner rather than a toilet venue, but even so The Raveonettes owned The Venue last night. Despite them wearing their influences on their sleeves, they still sound much fresher and more exciting than most bands on the indie scene right now. The new material easily slotted into the setlist alongside their older, more tried and tested works, even if they did spunk That Great Love Sound, quite simply one of the greatest records ever made, away far too early in the set. The band themselves looked excellent, though I can only assume that Sharin Foo was fulfilling her job description of being a glacial beauty, as my view of her was obscured alternately by a pillar and some bloke’s head. Still, even that did little to spoil the enjoyment of the main event, as vocally she was very much on form, harmonising with Sune Rose Wagner in a slightly disturbing, almost alien like and certainly very sexual way. Although the crowd never went truly wild – they’re not that sort of band - by the time they encored with Attack of the Ghost Riders they were being madly appreciative in a low key manner, but this laid-back celebration of their talents seemed somehow appropriate for a band who exude so much cool that their heating bills must be astronomical.
The Raveonette’s fucking rock. Ronnie Spector thinks so, you should too.
Unfortunately before the sumptuous desert, we had to endure a starter and main-course seemingly taken from a cookbook entitled “1001 Disgusting Recipes Involving Broccoli”. First up were Boxer Rebellion who presumably, on going to the tune cupboard and finding it to be bare, instead went and helped themselves to the overflowing drawer marked Dull and Derivative Indie. They’re the sort of band that you genuinely wonder why they bother existing: surely they must have listened back to themselves and thought “Fuck, we’re really bringing nothing at all to the musical table, are we? Maybe we should just give it up and get jobs as accountants just like our mothers want us to”. Following them were The Dogs who gain points by at least having some energy and passion, not being Boxer Rebellion and also for having a couple of tunes that bordered on the memorable, but promptly lose them all again by ultimately being a bit shit, and for the fact that the lead singer, as he was in Scotland, wore a tartan tie like a patronising cock.
Anyway, once that crap was out the way, any band would have probably sounded excellent, but the headliners didn’t need such artificial boosts being, as they are, fucking ace. Sounding like a sixties girl group gone bad, even though they’re 80% male, they’d be more suited to playing in a haunted diner rather than a toilet venue, but even so The Raveonettes owned The Venue last night. Despite them wearing their influences on their sleeves, they still sound much fresher and more exciting than most bands on the indie scene right now. The new material easily slotted into the setlist alongside their older, more tried and tested works, even if they did spunk That Great Love Sound, quite simply one of the greatest records ever made, away far too early in the set. The band themselves looked excellent, though I can only assume that Sharin Foo was fulfilling her job description of being a glacial beauty, as my view of her was obscured alternately by a pillar and some bloke’s head. Still, even that did little to spoil the enjoyment of the main event, as vocally she was very much on form, harmonising with Sune Rose Wagner in a slightly disturbing, almost alien like and certainly very sexual way. Although the crowd never went truly wild – they’re not that sort of band - by the time they encored with Attack of the Ghost Riders they were being madly appreciative in a low key manner, but this laid-back celebration of their talents seemed somehow appropriate for a band who exude so much cool that their heating bills must be astronomical.
The Raveonette’s fucking rock. Ronnie Spector thinks so, you should too.