“All these bands are doing this for free,” I was told upon arrival at the massively-publicised GigInAFlat; “so you’ve got to write nice things about them.” The thought had already crossed my mind – partly in order to cancel out the bad karma accrued through my planned theft of the flat owners’ telly – but I have to admit that this affront to my journalistic integrity had flecks of froth appearing at my quivering Harold Bishop jowls. As if my tireless quest for candour could be tamed by a mere plea for leniency! With narrowed eyes I awaited the acts, the Vagisil of truth preparing to soothe the feminine itching of propaganda and spin.
Disappointingly though, my bile was forced to remain internalised. This was partly down to the easygoing ambience that such an informal event naturally cultivates, but credit must also be placed at the feet of the bands themselves. SILVERSTRING, the first group to grace the Main Stage (capacity: 20, with 8 more on the balcony), wooed allcomers with their guitar/cello/vox combo, the so-laid-back-it's-horizontal sound simultaneously setting the mood for the evening and calming fears that there'd be neighbourly retaliation in the vein of the Run DMC/Aerosmith 'Walk This Way' video. Milky vocals combined with strumtastic backing and the odd gliding cello chord to great effect, but the real highlights were to be found where the strings played a more prominent role: parts of 'Words', for instance, came as close to rocking out as was possible given the circumstances, whilst 'Five Hour Journey' somehow managed to galvanise the sofa residents into orgiastic clapping-along. Even periodic interruptions from the doorbell couldn't dampen the atmosphere - on the contrary, it merely added a very contemporary 'electro' cutting edge to proceedings which, had we been in Hoxton, I would have sworn was meant as some sort of twatty artistic expression.
A brief hiatus follwed, during which Silverstring were presented with a box of Matchmakers as their fee, the smallest drum kit in the world was lovingly erected (no giggling at the back, thank you) and the limited technology on display - a bass amp and an incongruously expensive-looking camcorder - was fiddled with. This was when the evening's advantages became obvious: not for this venue was obnoxious piped NME music designed to get assorted wankers sloshing their Carling around; instead, mingling was the order of the day. I sheepishly admit to being one of the less enthusiastic minglers at the time, but judging from other people's mingle-related tales I hear the conversation was excellent. A quick glance around the room and adjacent balcony/corridors reinforced the impression that everyone was having a jolly good time because of - as opposed to despite - the enclosed space. Reviewers often cite 'intimacy' as a factor that enhances the enjoyment of gigs; this particular event took that to a whole new level.
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A mere click of the fingers later, and everyone reassembled on the assorted sofas and carpets to watch THE ORIGINAL SINNERS. Let's not pull any punches here - I'd never heard of them, but to be honest I was rather shocked that no-one had thought of that name for a band before. It's pretty good, don't you think?
The band's semi-schtick of being deep-Southern baptist "hell yeah" types wasn't exactly helped by the Norwegian flag poking out of the bookcase behind them, but it's a credit to their tenacity that they stubbornly stuck to the idea that yes, actually, hardcore rootsy rednecks could well be playing in Bethnal Green. Forgoing a mic, lead singer Charlotte Brereton dispayed impressive vocal strength that didn't suffer when pitched against the instruments; indeed, the lack of amplification added to the backroom charm.
What really cemented the band's stature, though, was the fact that they were quite obviously loving the tits off the whole event. Either that, or they hated it so much that they thought it was really funny. Whatever the case, every member of the band was full of the joys of spring, grinning from ear to ear like a posse of sour mash-sodden reprobates. In such a snug environment wanton effusiveness is infectious and, when the event drew to a close with the apparently true-life 'Billy Blue Blood' ("our drummer's called Billy, and he's got blue blood"), there wasn't a soul in the room with their hands in their pockets. I'd wager that, were it not for the fire alarms, there'd be quite a few lighters held aloft.
If the improvised encore (the Geldofian 'Save Africa') was the crowning glory, the Ferrero Rocher handed around the crowd was the sceptre. If there's one thing that sends me into superlative-defying raptures, it's Ferrero Rocher. They serve them at the Ambassador's reception, you know. But just this once, I'm more satisfied by two sofas and a balcony than by any number of gilt-edged chandeliers.
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