Reviewed on 6th February 2007.

Napoleon IIIrd

Live at HiFi Club on Friday, 2nd February 2007

Even if he is unable to attend - by dint of incarceration, far-flung vacation or other indisposition - the embedded chronological awareness of any Leeds gig-goer will tell him at this juncture (6pm on the first Friday of the month) that he should be nestling within the subterranean catacombs of the Hi-Fi Club. For it is here that the movers and shakers of the local scene will be convening for the Tea Time Shuffle. Unfortunately, however, your reviewer's own timepiece has been playing up again. He therefore manages (with concomitant grovelling apologies to Four Letter Holiday and Tigerbomb) to miss tonight's estimable brace of openers.

Due time, however, remains to witness the peculiar transmogrification of Rob Chapman, our habitually genial TTS host, into the tense coiled spring of a man about to perform. And the reason for this, of course, is that his own outfit - Loqui - are next on the bill. Bizarrely this will not be the last 7-piece we witness tonight. And even more bizarrely 7 is not even the most we will see on stage, but more of that potential Health & Safety violation later on... For now we are happy to witness the charged arrival of Loqui on stage. At first appearance the band do not hint at the force they are about to unleash, composed - as they appear to be - from a body of accomplished yet unlikely-looking musicians purveying a range of unglamorous instruments. However, the full effect of all members playing off one another's energy is truly uplifting without every becoming incoherent. Think of such troupes as Madness, Dexy's and the Blockheads, if you can do so whilst avoiding notions of 'knees-up' pastiche. There is an honesty and belief to this music that is rammed home by Rob's vocal delivery which, at times, verges upon the speed of machine-gunning punk. The odd Maximo-style scissor kick (slightly tricky in tonight's tailcoat) only serves to underline this intent, but there are plenty of softer harmonious moments alongside saxophonist Tash. One final athletic leap from the frontman brings a burst of rapturous applause from the faithful and we repair, as one, to the crowded bar.

Next up we are presented with another stage full of accomplished musicians, albeit of a somewhat different hue. Cast aside the brass section, engage strings and lap-steel guitar by way of compensation, and we travel almost seamlessly from suburban clamour to the enchanting bucolic sounds of Ali Whitton and the Broke Record Players. However, this is no excuse to pay anything less than rapt attention. Indeed, it cannot really be pigeon-holed as folk or country - although it did bring to mind (in the best possibly way) the early experimentalism of Fairport Convention. The set is more of an augmentation of challenging lyric through the accompaniment of an extremely complementary and well developed instrumental melody. The Broke Record Players is something of a misnomer inasmuch as they always threw up something aurally challenging, without ever becoming repetitive. This is not something one would expect to encounter within the indie hegemony of the current scene, which is a shame inasmuch as it does not deserve to be consigned to the backwaters of overlooked folk clubs and intimate, yet beard-dominated, pubs. For a start, the stages therein - being used to one be-capped fellow on a 3-legged stool - would rarely be big enough for this lot.

And so to the coup de grace, and a rare treat for the discerning Leodensian; the spectacle of Napoleon IIIrd plus ad hoc band. There are (without naming names) almost as many familiar faces on stage as there are in the front rows of the crowd, and anticipation is high. By way of background, however, there is little to be added that has not been said before. This fellow has been wowing the cognoscenti for some time with his incomparable ability to create a depth of sound on-stage without assistance. His stock recourse is to a much-loved tape spool. It has served him well, and the true sense of experimentalism that he brings with it quashes almost all cries of 'cheat!' before they have been aired. His reasons for relying on the technique, more of creative freedom than simple expediency, are reasonable enough. However, there is something about the prospect of seeing (and, more to the point, hearing) him accompanied by 7 fellow musicians which has drawn many here tonight. Early signs are encouraging, as he works through the familiar DTTR compilation inclusion 'The Conformist Takes It All'. As his elsewhere-admitted acknowledgement of John Cage and, indeed, his use of the spool would suggest, Napoleon IIIrd makes his best points more forceful through repetition. By the end of 'Conformist' no-one was in any doubt that (in his words) 'average was not the best' they could do, and in the nicest possible way I pondered whether the Broke Record Player had been backing the wrong man tonight.

But it's a winning technique. He may not look radically dissimilar to any busker you might catch on Hope Street on an average Tuesday, and its entirely possible that he may not have plundered too deep into the English literary canon to come up with these lyrics. However, my suspicion is not only that if anyone leaving the Hi-Fi tonight were to have been asked to recite a single lyric from the evening that it would have been from this last set, but that if so asked they would have been able to quote the same to a high degree of accuracy. For all the forceful literate assault of a Loqui tirade, or the wistful weight of an Whitton verse, your reviewer is predominantly left with the following repeated Napoleonic refrain ringing in the ears: "This is not my life / This is my day job / Something to pay the rent / This is not my life / This is my day job / A reminder to myself." This songwriter seems to pack far more pertinence into one stanza than a lot of successful troubadours manage in an entire tawdry album, so with the added weight of musical experimentation that would knock your archetypal strummed acoustic guitar into a cocked hat, it can only be hoped that whatever day job he was citing will soon become a truly unnecessary adjunct to a successful musical career and, moreover, due public recognition.