Back in simpler times, the average consumer was happy to have a
bog-standard alpine breeze air freshener in their home. The limited, artificial scent was more than adequate for those
unfortunate folks who had rancid-smelling kids, or a penchant for
vomiting somewhere in the living room and not being able to find it the next morning. Simple was enough.
Then advertisers invented science. And now consumers are happy to pay more for air fresheners which rotate between three different scents that smell not entirely unlike freshly mown grass. Or bleach. Because now we are wiser. We have more options. And we know that our noses "stop smelling" odours after a few minutes because they simply stop registering what they're too familiar with.
It's a ridiculous argument, which has no place in any gig review destined to be read by anyone more discerning than the average Travis fan. But it's the only scientific explanation I can think of for why I suddenly switched off halfway through a night with THE PONYS.
Chicago's bright young things made a whistlestop visit to London to promote their third album, Turn the Lights Out. Reviews of the band's visceral gigging prowess were generally positive. Reaction to the album was more mixed, with fans either revelling in their classic if slightly familiar sound, or just forgetting the thing was on in the first place and wandering off to make a cheese sandwich.
Even those who praise the band do question how prominently they betray their influences. But surely this is no bad thing, when you tip your hat to the likes of Sonic Youth, Dinosaur Jr and the Jesus and Mary Chain.
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By 10pm, the Ear, Nose and Throat Hospital next door to the intimate Kings Cross music venue was surely turning up its bed covers for a swarm of admissions. And the band were in no mood to mess about with ballads and swirling progressive intros, breaking into a ten-minute spate of simple, growling, guitar-based revelry.
The sound was crisp and overwhelming, the lights swirled and shifted colour like a Gonzo bingo night, and the tight music area out back left little room for prawn sandwich-eating spectators. But all at once, the endearing simplicity of the band's unpretentious rock hollering was no longer enough, and the intermittent guitar effects seemed more like window dressing.
The Ponys were certainly a tight band, a good band, and even an eclectic band. But without that spark of inspiration, they couldn't bust through the daily diet of garage rock cholesterol which had firmly clogged the route to my heart.
It's like the folks at Ambi Pur air fresheners always said: You can be the big stink with one smell for a while, but unless you keep the smeller on their toes, you're going to fade away into the mix.
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