Dead Bells
Live at Brudenell Social Club on Wednesday, 18th February 2009
Tonight's line up at the Brudenell has been pruned as Nursery of Naughtiness have had their laptop stolen. Pah! Paul Weller must be turning in his living grave; every time you programme a beat a plectrum dies he often does cry.
He wears a pork pie hat, has a ridiculously apt name but we won't hold it against James Owen Fender as he launches some seriously infectious pop. Riffing guitars, tell you how it is 'cos it is how we say' lyrics, it's like blowing bubblegum, and who doesn't like that? It's a main meal of Pinhead rock from the bass and drums. If all else fails these guys could carve out a career writing for Miley Cyrus (doubtless not the only thing they would be doing). A sharp and snappy answer to economic woes.
Gone is the saccharine, The Little Blackhearts are stale booze and STDs. There is no doubt they blow the cobwebs away but you've seen it before. If you like your rock, ballsy, leathered and tired, be sure to check them out. Just Say No! to anything that sounds like Jet, save it, stop it.
The frontman juts around like a demented imp but there is no stopping Dead Bells appeal. The crowd are hooped and wooed by a nucleus of showmanship and poodle cut electrons. It's safe, it's now but they keep it concise. You may not know what the singer is talking about but you believe him. Radiohead it ain't but it's a snappy whirlwind of sound. Fun stuff to believe in.
