Camden’s Dublin Castle, the 16th of July 2005. It’s my first time reviewing at this place and, seeing as the last time I was in Camden I was offered crack by the scariest-looking man on the planet whilst innocuously walking down the street, I am slightly wary of the place. My lingering fears are hardly assuaged by the fact that the live room in the venue is a cavernous dive reminiscent of the S&M dungeon in Pulp Fiction, minus only a gimp. This trepidation, however, makes way remarkably quickly to be replaced by seething anger when the guy at the desk charges me and my photographer two quid entrance fee: apparently the term ‘guest list’ holds no influence over these people. Immediately, being the egomaniacal journalist that I (and most of my contemporaries) am, the relatively small fee sets off visions of writing the most unrelenting and hate-filled stream of sheer bile ever committed to the internet in some kind of tit-for-tat punishment. The anticipation has me drooling before the band comes on stage – I am desperate for a monumental fuck-up.
Disappointingly, what follows is nothing of the sort. THE LEN PRICE 3, although owners of a nondescript band name (in which, ‘hilariously’, none of the members are called Len Price), have nothing nondescript about their music. In fact, that’s slightly misleading – what they produce is not music as much as it’s a performance. Their identical Bardot-striped tops and Beatles barnets set the tone for a set that, although admittedly backward-looking in influence, never succumbs to Jet’s mistake of becoming derivative. Instead, it’s a rip-roaringly abrupt collection of pop that recollects the Jam whilst inserting some nu-wave strutting and keeping its tongue firmly inserted cheekways.
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The Len Price 3’s charm derives in no small quantity from their sheer exuberance. Even though tonight’s venue is barely half-full the band throw themselves into things with full commitment, with the lead singer and guitarist Glenn Page gladly playing up to the camera with a succession of heroically O.T.T. rock poses that compliment the aural atmosphere perfectly. Although, if we’re being honest, there was nothing utterly remarkable or groundbreaking about the gig, that is not what all music’s for. Leave that to Radiohead or Squarepusher or some socially inept dickhead with an Apple Mac. Instead, what small gigs excel at providing is joyous, shameless, vomit-in-the-corner excitement – and that’s the Len Price 3’s forte. Everyone’s happy, then. And I wasn’t even offered any crack.
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