And then it’s all from the sublime to the ridiculous as we’re sheep-prodded by our entourage into The Albert pub for some Jonathan Jeremiah action, whose very appearance can perform miracles – his Chad Kroeger Jesus look instantly turning our wine into piss. And thus having descended on us from on high (he’s on something) into a perplexingly rammed venue, old JJ proceeds to regale us with some vaguely deep-south contrivances (the chap’s from London innit) that sound something like David Grey doing covers of Black – not a colour in sight, except in that woven permed-seagull mullet of his, which we half expect to start flapping about in a bid for freedom from this insultingly old-skool tripe, with its accompanying farting trombones and that ramblin’ put-on voice that’s headed somewhere in the direction of Fife, Alabama.
And thus polluted, we head off to the beach to cleanse, or possibly drown ourself. Only to find Nigel Thomas from The Foxes limbering up for a special seafront acoustic set for Escape sponsors Red Stripe. As the camera rolls and Thomas plonks himself down, a can of the red’n’white stuff is positioned next to him by the sponsor people like a big corporate cock. A devoted Bill Hicks fan (The Foxes have a song named after the great man), you can see this obvious product placement is like a turd falling into his drink though he gamely soldiers on, pouring out a version of ‘Something About You’ that swells with all the nostalgic force of the ocean behind him. And with a rendition of single ‘Get Me’, with its refrain of “You don’t get me”, bashed out to a bunch of journos and sponsors as the sun sets, it seems like pretty cathartic stuff for the singer. As if to punctuate this, with a can of sponsorship lager left plonked amid the pebbles, Thomas gets up and makes like Reggie Perrin and wades into the ocean, guitar in hand like some giant oar. And you don’t get much more redemptive than that. Bill would’ve approved…
With Hicks having died the same year as Kurt Cobain, the next act neatly brings to mind the other casualty of 1994. If the Nirvana frontman has been born a woman, he would have been the Joy Formidable singer. And with a voice that reaches above and beyond anything within the realms of consciousness, her deceptively diminutive figure virtually knocks holes in this close, cavernous venue. Mid-set crowd favourite ‘Cradle’ sees Ritzy in such possession of the crowd, it’s like a mass séance having an utter fit. The Nirvana comparison is all too evident (would could be in a basketball court, throwing dandruff all over the shop), and in Ritzy you have a performer that makes Hole seem like, well, the void their name suggests. If Cobain were around today, you’d think this would be his shag of choice (though he’d effectively be humping himself). The finale of absolutely massive ‘Whirring’ is also as intoxicating as its title suggests, the Joyous ones bringing a thunderous conclusion to a track that, on tape, is near perfection, but live is absolutely God-like. The conclusion to this is simple: this may be one of the best live acts in the world right now.
All of which makes following on the heels of that performance a bit of a poisoned chalice few could match, but The Sunshine Underground are no lightweights. Opening with massive call-to-arms weapon of mass devastation ‘Coming To Save You’, this lot set their stall out in no uncertain fashion. Barely able to catch our breaths, the following rally-call of ‘Wake Up’ is the quintessential air-raid siren for the unashamedly indie. It’s all we’ve come to expect from this lot, but what of the new stuff?
Enter new single ‘Spell It Out’, if you please – a relentless rifferama built of such unabashed euphoria it makes The Killers sound like they’re on downers. Instantly classic, The Sunshine Underground’s new output passes the litmus test with infectious results. By then, it’s all for the taking. ‘The Way It Is’ has a flawless mosh-making rhythm section and imploringly vitriolic vocals and in the interlude that follows that absolute onslaught, frontman Craig Wellington sports a grin the size of a banana, knowing he’s still holding an ace up his sleeve. ‘Put You In Your Place’ absolutely shudders, thumps and thrashes proceedings to a close, its cathartic line “I’m on top are you trying to stop me now?” delivered with such belligerent fury it’s like a seriously threatening note to any fashionistas or industry types who would dare to doubt their ability to rock this party to its very foundations. As for the rest who may have been naysayers, we’re certain a lot of Very Important People might have left here tonight with a very vital ‘R’ extracted from their sense of importance.
Escape? Check. Great? Undoubtedly. Trip back to London? Oh bollocks!
Words by Stephen Brolan
Photos by Jane Hoskyn
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