Razorlight are better looking than you or I, they're also younger, thinner and more talented than you or I - well, you anyway. So by all means go ahead and hate them. I'd do it quickly though because the minute the instant melody of second single 'Rip It Up' seeps into the smoky air they've got you and no matter how hard you try to slither free and decry them as uber-cool, wimpy fashionistas you'll be hooked, netted, gutted, fried and covered in
batter to be served up in the very newspapers that will be carrying their name as a matter of course in the near future.
Indeed, in this Converse wearing, pin stripe jacketed era of brit-rock debonair, Razorlight have been mentioned in more 'big in 2004' articles than Michelle McManus. They've also begun to shake off the 'He used to be in the Libertines', tag, a nugget of trivia that can't have harmed early attempts to infiltrate the psyche of the stylish kids but one that could also threaten to both anchor and label if their momentum threatened to falter.
Tonight you could be forgiven for thinking it might as Razorlight battle for a reaction from the too-cool-for-school crowd. But, hey, what do they know about riffs you could hang your stripy jumper on, startling and studded simplicity and the kind of 'Fuck You' attitude that sees them belt out all of the singles within their opening salvo.
Mind you in Razorlight's case using up the hits makes two-thirds of no difference, as each song is as exquisitely catchy as the last. Jerky, jangly, pacey and punchy they suck you in with two and a half minutes of instantly recognisable hooks and tunes you swear you've heard before, then spit you out just as you're getting comfortable. It's a formula they repeat, sans monotony and cliché, throughout.
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That is until two-in-one epic closer 'In the City' where Johnny Borrell, whose skywards stare weakens the knees of the pigtailed tracksuiteers and the miniature Karen O-lites alike, embarks into the crowd like a Texan preacher. "I was looking for you", he pines, though it's obvious that whoever he's looking for isn't in the Cockpit as he's pretty soon back onstage, scampering from side to side like a dog on a car seat.
For a band keen to prove they can headline venues they've been supporting in for what seems like aeons it's an anthemic, fitting end to a frenetic set. One in which Razorlight have more than demonstrated that they've enough in reserve to win over a few asymmetrically mulleted faux-punks. Tonight they're cocksure and infectious, and with only a few singles to satisfy our desire we're like a randy teenager who's just knocked boots for the first
time. We want more - only this time a full-length version!
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