To steal a film right from under the noses of the principal actors isn't exactly unusual: John Turturro's gun-toting sex molester in The Big Lebowski; Bill Murray's post-modern self in Zombieland; Chris Wedge's sabre-toothed squirrel in Ice Age. But to do so in a film in which the principal actors spend ninety percent of the time not only naked, but having real, actual sex takes some doing. Perhaps the fact that Black Rebel Motorcycle's song ("Whatever Happened to My Rock and Roll") bulldozed its way past the sexual content of Michael Winterbottom's controversial but ultimately banal "9 Songs" says as much about how dull watching two individuals screw each other on celluloid can be as it does about the band's live experience, but it's nevertheless clear from the film that they have some game.
Funnily enough, the band opening proceedings, The Good The Bad, also has a certain sexual history (so to speak). But whilst BRMC's participation in "9 Songs" was limited and fleeting, The Good The Bad, with their steamy surf rock, explicit album covers and that video, are well and truly steeped in the naughty stuff. Indeed, it's almost a surprise to hear Adam Olsson announce that there will be "no girl tonight" before launching into "030" (the only non-album track played tonight), its thick leering bass (the band's baritone guitar, Manoj Ramdas, being notable by his absence) rumbling and rampaging over an extended shuddering climax. The one-two-three drum snap of natural opener "001" roots the audience to the floor before the nattily dressed Olsson and, more specifically, his treble-high guitar, careens through the room. The guitars are tightly slung, but with the bass replacement in for Ramdas' baritone, the dynamic of the songs is slightly affected. Indeed, the throbbing, sinuous bass sits extremely high in the mix, whilst the almost telepathic guitar combinations of the album are lacking slightly this evening. But whilst the slinky call and response may be less in evidence, in its place is a slightly brasher, distinctly unfettered energy, as TGTB hurtle through the weightier cuts from their debut album, "From 001 to 017", in a short, breathless half-hour set.
The mariachi rock of "004", the back-street sleaze of "003" and the fuzzy insistence of "002" all rattle past, but it's nevertheless hard to shake the nagging feeling that the venue, the imposing two hundred year old, 1,200 capacity Elysée Montmartre, is a little too spacious for the band. Rather than transforming the audience into a seething, cloying mass of sweat-covered body parts, the music drifts up and away into the former ballroom's high ceilings. This, coupled with the slightly reserved reaction from the crowd and the snowy conditions outside, means that the room doesn't crackle with the same electricity that we've come to expect from TGTB's live show. Huddled together the audience members may be, but the proximity isn't nearly intense enough for TGTB's pyretic tastes. A smaller, more claustrophobic venue would have perhaps been more suitable, where the clammy atmosphere could meld with the virility of the band's perspiration-soaked school of surf.
To the band's credit, though, there's still plenty of strut, and - much to this reviewer's delight - the band finds the time to pull out an elegant "fuck you" to a couple of whingers in the crowd in the shape of "006", a ballsy body clatterer of a song that gets the fingers snapping and the heels clicking. And as the band strolls off, the lingering echoes of "017", all fidgety impatience and intense vibrato bravado, can still be heard in the rattling of demi glasses around the bar.
With six full-lengths under their belt and rapidly approaching one thousand shows played ("a spooky fucking number", in the words of Robert Levon Been), Black Rebel Motorcycle Club stroll brazenly onto the stage to the stygian sounds of Buddy Guy's tumultuous "Baby Please Don't Leave Me". It's a bold move, considering the awesome whirlwind summoned up by the septuagenarian blues pioneer. But facing down the guitar-master is obviously a challenge BRMC have no intention of declining. "666Conducer", a track that feels as featureless as a Lincolnshire mudflat on 2007's "Baby 81", rumbles onto the scene like a Panzer executing a parallel park. The bass drum shudders, the rhythm section is treacle thick. And then, without warning, the guitar opens out and engulfs the room in a scree of white-hot noise. A bass amp blows. Probably a few eardrums too. The supersonic assault carries over into the equally aggressive pummelling of "Mama Taught Me Better". Even the taut but raucous radio-ready acousticism of "Ain't No Easy Way", from 2005's (pedal) steel-toe capped "Howl", here mutates into angst-ridden, turbo-charged blues. Indeed, by the time BRMC unleash the nuclear option and the first crash of Leah Shapiro's cymbals cuts through the gloom on "Weapon Of Choice", the crowd is flaring and chanting in equal measure.
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But despite this, perhaps more surprising is the relative variety in the band's set. BRMC's early career was dogged by criticism of unoriginality. The band stood accused of espousing a hard rock revivalism that barely aimed higher than the requisite shades and leather; that behind the don't-give-a-fuck demeanour, there was a don't-know-how-to inability to offer any more. Indeed, the rootsy Americana of "Howl" was for many a turning point on the dusty road towards, if not originality and innovation, then at least a sense of maturity. "Long Way Down", from this year's neo-Vervish "Beat The Devil's Tattoo" broods (whilst the crowd catches its breath) before funnelling its bar-room piano swing through a miasma of frothing proggish guitar. Another Brit-pop doff of the hat comes in the form of the Liam Gallagher-esque snarling on "Martyr", a swaggering rock monster that crackles with a sneering arrogance and whip crack drums.
Nevertheless, the best reaction is reserved for the band's earlier material, which continues to fizz with an insouciant rambunctiousness and an undeniable attitude. The throttling "Spread Your Love" still pins you to the wall as it rams a fistful of pounding riffs and throbbing basslines down your throat. "Red Eyes And Tears" seethes feverishly, like a pulsating boil just out of reach, before bursting open with chugging rhythms and full-blooded, flushed guitar. "Salvation", uplifting and chiming in equal measure on the album, is put through the mixer here, trading in the lightweight jangle for a crisper, more tribal metronomic beat and a simmering, brooding tension. This is one distinctly ominous-sounding salvation. Deliverance may be a little much to ask, but come home time, and as the dusty torch-song of "Open Invitation", a moodily exhausted come-down hidden at the very end of "Howl", fades into the atrementous Rococo décor high above, there's a invigorated atmosphere permeating the room. As the snowflakes flutter in the inky darkness outside, crimson-tipped cigarettes mix indiscriminately with glowing cheeks, scarlet with adrenaline, and fired-up eyes, still burning from BRMC's muscular intensity.
Both bands have determinedly mined the respective seams of nostalgia in the creation of their rock brands. But whilst TGTB are a blitzkrieg of sparkling efficiency and pure energy, BRMC are a roots 'n' blues whirlwind of pure, brutish, sonic force, the primal scream to TGTB's primordial urges. It's an undeniably potent, exhilaratingly vigorous (Molotov) cocktail.
Black Rebel Motorcycle Club online
The Good The Bad online
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