Never, dear reader, underestimate the sterility of ‘modern’ music venues, ie, those built in the last fifteen years. A good case in point: late last year, I walked out of an Aimee Mann gig at the O2 Dome's smaller "Indigo" venue after three songs - "amazing acoustics" according to the PR, but the feel of a television studio. I half-expected Vernon Kay or some other popular muppet to be on hand as a compare.. It was cold, impersonal and – worst of all – dull.
Although it's not quite as abhorrent, the Carling Bar Academy in Islington is similarly all-style and no-charm; an attempt to create some ridiculous notion of the ‘now’ - if the ‘now’ consists of a cold, echoey shop floor decorated by murals left over from an MTV commercial shoot.
So as a UK national, I'm a little embarrassed when New Yorkers LEVY take the stage - they come to us armed with enthusiasm, good songs and a decent level of mystique...and we give them bad architecture and a marketing demographic report to contend with.
I mention this because it's relevant: there's simply no atmosphere in places like this and it's an uphill struggle for Levy before they've even taken stage. Two support bands have played to a crowd with the enthusiasm of school-fete mothers and the main act could either crumble with ease or shine with effort.
Thankfully, it's the latter. Front man James Levy - redolent in Rocky Balboa coat and hat - doesn't speak much, preferring to let the songs fight this battle for him. While his band may be named in honour of their singer-guitarist, they're an impressive bunch of misfit musicians in their own right - pretty boys with rough edges, thrift-store fashion bundles of Yankee enthusiasm. They bounce merrily around Mr Levy while he snarls and shoots moody poses down the mike stand.
Levy's roots lie in the anti-folk scene - that short-lived East Village movement that produced some shining stars - Adam Green, Kimya Dawson, Regina Spektor and the wonderful Jeff Lewis - but didn't really have any shared musical style other than the two staples of homegrown indie-dom; lo-fi recordings and a lyrical focus.
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So where does this leave Levy? Their own musical cues are a curious diamond indeed. Just like a glut of young bands over in Sweden and Spain these last few years, there's a massive debt to early-to-mid 80s indie. They tick the obscure/cool box for C86, Sarah Records and the like - but there's an even bigger whiff of the first few Echo and the Bunnymen albums, even some Julian Cope and XTC.
They certainly deliver a compact set of songs tonight, scratched with an uber-coolness that one might interpret as a measure of distancing themselves from their audience - but it's more likely down to the god-awfulness of the venue and an effort to cocoon themselves from its shortcomings.
Every song flows with the skill of a practiced songwriter - from the dramatic pop of "Glorious" (their crowning achievement so far) to "Rotten Love", an ode to James Levy’s humble beginnings ("I think about Regina...what she's done for me....she's so sweet" etc) back in the cafes and bars of the Big Apple.
My only real criticism? You can call it veiled praise if you want – there's a very real sense that they haven't quite hit their stride yet. They've got the basics right, sure, and proved they can write and play - the next step is to tap into all that lovely potential and blow us away. They didn’t do this tonight. Levy came, they delivered, they left - and I went home feeling happy and content but a teensy bit empty inside. That's fine for now but I expect bigger things for next time (not least, some control over where they play).
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