Over the past five years I’ve gone from a lad that could quite easily recount the top twenty to someone who actively avoids what counts as ‘popular’. Some of you would say that’s the way it should have been from the start but this isn’t some kind of personal manifesto: the terms popular and special can go hand in hand. The Smiths had top twenty singles and Nirvana were incalculably massive. That’s before we even mention The Beatles sending Revolution Number 9 unwittingly into the homes of millions of people.
So while it is possible for interesting bands to be awarded with success, my mainstream disillusionment has been fuelled by the fact that lately, a lot of artists that have made the crossover have just been awful. The charts aren’t worth bothering with because I won’t find anything good there anymore.
Due to the steady drip-drip-drip of the internet, the name WILD BEASTS kept appearing. I knew they dealt with intricate rhythms, used two singers and had grubby sexy lyrics. I’d heard a few songs before but noticed that their third album was receiving universally amazing praise. Immediately I was dubious, it was only a matter of time before the NME declared them the saviours of British music and neutered them forever. With the album going top twenty this weekend I was equally distrustful.
I spoke to my mate Jacob (who’s a kind of oracle when it comes to this sort of thing) about whether Wild Beasts were worth seeing live. “Definitely, definitely go. Best live band in Britain” was the response. I asked what to expect. “Plenty of weird falsetto, ace guitar, cowbells, big singalong tunes. Go in there with an open mind and I think you’ll love it”.
Playing the immaculately pristine ballroom at Sheffield City Hall there was a feeling that the freaks had invaded. Rather than the mainstream blindly adopting anything they think could inspire a generation of Topshop customers, this felt like I had stepped into Isherwood’s Berlin. This was almost a cult. Put simply, this was The Smiths playing This Charming Man on Top Of The Pops. While they maybe a little too insular to be Britain’s best live band, pound for pound they’re undeniably up there. The two lead voices are operatic, fragile and relentlessly captivating. The attention to detail with every sound is awe inspiring. More importantly, despite the delicate, topsy-turvy creations Wild Beasts deliver, most of the songs are under four minutes. This is pop music and it’s magnificent.
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People danced. Not just indieboy shuffles, this was The Stone Roses at Blackpool type dancing. Rather than spoon feed songs to the audience Wild Beast’s evoked a sultry mood. Nothing was forced; instead it delicately unfolded over their hour set. There was an unwavering connection between band and audience. Hardly anything was said but the feeling was undoubtedly that this was a band that people utterly believed in and had been waiting their lives for.
When Wild Beasts let their final song melt away inside a waterfall of guitar loops for an absolute age before freezing it back together in an Everest sized outro, there was the glorious feeling that not everyone was going to understand this, but thousands of people do. The freaks have invaded, things could finally get dangerous.
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