There's a reason I make an effort to arrive at a gig in decent time, and why I endure endless average, samey and even outright appalling bottom-of-the-bill support acts, and no, it's not because I like to torture myself. It's because every once in a while there will be a band like Traitors on. Well, not quite like Traitors, because I've never seen anything quite like them. I mean a band that completely blows me away. Traitors are almost two bands in one: the musicians on stage, comprising a nonchalant rhythm section and a flamboyant guitarist, who knock out tight pop-infused indie, driven by groove-laden funk-filled basslines, and the guy in front of the stage with the mic who flails around like he's having a fit, hollering and screaming like he's possessed. It's a strange stylistic juxtaposition that's so out there and yet works to stunning effect. It's kinf of like The Associates scrapping it out with Black Flag. Yes, really.
As this is a double-header tour, I had wondered whether Errors or The Twilight Sad would be playing last, but figured I couldn't really lose: if Errors headlined but failed to excite, an early bed (or a pint on the way home) was always a possibility. Otherwise, the band I had come to see would end the night on a high.
As Errors took the stage with a bank of keyboards and other electronic gizmos as well as a full compliment of guitars, I realised the early finish was off. This was all soon forgotten before long anyway, as Errors managed to win me over pretty quickly in the early stages of their set. The might have come on like Hot Chip, but augmenting their brand of bleepy electronica with a barrage of intricate and heavily processed guitars, the rather nerdy-looking foursome ended up more in the territory occupied by Holy Fuck. The set built well, and managed to hold my interest - no mean feat for a rather uncommunicative dance-orientated act. The brilliant live drum sound, which was solid and crisp, really helped, lending the sound a more organic quality. Just don't ask me what any of the songs were called.
To describe The Twilight Sad as 'uplifting' may sound rather peverse, but plenty of those present would agree that their live shows are truly exhilarating. It's not the rapport they build with the audience: they're largely uncommunicative, but it's not Scottish dourness so much as a band entirely immersed in the music. James Graham still stands side-on to the audience and has his eyes closed or cast upwards to the ceiling, avoiding potential distractions and pouring heart and soul into every word and buried low in the mix. Andy MacFarlane's guitar is a raging beast from which he wrings a calamitous sound, while Mark Devine's drumming is seriously heavy-duty: uncluttered in style, his rhythms are solid and weighty.
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They launched straight into their set with 'Wrong Car,' the lead track off the EP they're on the road to promote. It's stonking. I hadn't expected anything less, of course: they're a consummate live band. Yes, they're tight, but above all, they're exciting. The set's fairly evenly balanced between the two albums, and also introduces the other new track from the EP, 'Throw Yourself In the Water Again.' This, in conjunction with the abridged set (a mere 45 minutes, but that's what you get with two headliners and a 10.30 curfew), meant that some great songs were displaced. No 'Reflection of the Television' or 'Seven Years of Letters', but despite such omissions, there was no cause for complaint. 'That Birthday Present' was a passionate roar of angst buried beneath a squall of guitars, while 'That Summer, At Home I Had Become The Invisible Boy' and 'And She Would Darken the Memory' brought a lump to the throat. 'I Became a Prostitute' was blistering, a searing sonic assault, and by the time they brought things to a close with 'Cold Days from the Birdhouse' the catharsis was complete.
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