Greg Dulli obviously stirs strong feeling within his audience. The bloke next to me has come all the way down from Bristol for tonight. I had to ask a second time and check he knew who was playing.
The signs were good to begin with. The only mic stand I’ve ever seen with a drinks holder and ashtray built on. Class. Not being particularly familiar with either the Afghan Whigs or The Twilight Singers my mind was open and I was ready for conversion. When he walked out the most striking thing about him is how unstriking he is. An everyman, he looks like the bloke at the end of the bar in your local who gave up on fashion a long time ago. The alcohol flows and many cigarettes are smoked and there’s an underlying sadness to events smothered in a faux celebratory atmosphere.
His crowd love him. 30 somethings who obviously know their music but also know what they’re comfortable with. The band are, to give them their due, fantastic. The five of them make a glorious racket with bass, drums, piano, guitar and Dulli adding his own guitar and vocals. The first couple of songs lead me to believe that I’m in for a treat with this huge meaty indie sound, all rough edges and loud as hell.
Having read the reviews I knew there would be a lot of cover versions but this doesn’t really prepare you for the patchwork of a set that then unfolds. They range from the obscure, ‘Too Tough To Die’ by Martina Topley Bird (and I’m sure many others I didn’t recognise) to the ‘classics’ such as ‘All You Need is Love’ and ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’. Trouble is I’m bored. Really bored. London’s alive outside, living for now, it’s a hugely exciting time in music full of genuine lust for life and celebration of the now but the Scala tonight feels like a dead spot in this vibrant city wallowing in what could have been.
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Greg Dulli appears bitter at his lot and the crowd equally convey a feeling of knowing superiority, that they are right and one day the rest of the world will catch up. I try and I try and I can’t see it and I’d rather be down the road at the Astoria watching Razorlight, full of the vigour of youth, the swagger of those that haven’t been battered down yet.
And I know that many of you will scoff at such young upstarts mentioned in the same breath as The Twilight Singers because this is serious music and Razorlight are big mouthed kids who need to be knocked down a peg or two. But there’s a reason Razorlight sell out the Astoria and The Twilight singers can’t fill the Scala. If I want my music dark and distilled through experience I will head for (some time Dulli collaborator) Mark Lanegan who bizarrely seems to be making some of his most vital music when he should be fading from view.
Chuck in, and this is an educated guess, some old Afghan Whigs and the crowd are suitably happy. However to those of us living in 2004 this is utterly irrelevant and my mind begins to wonder slowly followed by my feet. More than likely he finished off with ‘Hey Ya’ but I can wait for the bloke down my local to murder it on the karaoke. I’m sure it’s all very post modern and clever and probably has something to say about the disposable nature of the modern world but it’s strictly for the converted. All the way from Bristol for this? You need to get out more mate.
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