THE SAINTS + NANKER PHELGE
@ the Annandale Hotel
Friday, March 22 2002All right, I'll admit it: I went along to this show fully expecting to get the shits. The last time I saw Chris Bailey was several years ago when he supported Johnette Napolitano at the now defunct Harbourside Brasserie and I found his between songs patter annoyingly vain and vacuous in roughly equal measures; so much so that it was all I could do to stop myself screaming out from the audience, "No wonder Ed Kuepper thinks you're a complete arsehole!".
Now here he was back in town, wringing the last ounce of marquee value out of the Saints good name to boot. Well, after about an hour and a half, with the encores going well into "overtime", I came away suitably chastened. As you might guess, I'm not overly familiar with much of the post Kuepper era repertoire, but tonight's set seemed like a good balance across all the albums (though someone who claimed to have the new album, "Spit The Blues Out", reckoned they only played one song from it) with enough of the early tunes for honour to be satisfied, without wallowing in nostalgia or desecrating the grandeurs of the past.
When he opened with "Know Your Product" it looked like my worst fears were going to be realised and I fully expected a condescending, mercenary "parade of hits" with "(I'm) Stranded" held back for the inevitable, cynical encore, but bugger me if he didn't slip it in half way through the set (along with "No Time", its original "B" side). Sure "Just Like Fire Would" was saved for the very end, but that's okay - it's "his" song, so he's allowed to do that. Anyway, the main set was still plenty strong enough without it (unlike some sad old troupers who play an entire set that's nothing but filler, keeping everyone waiting until the encore for that one biggie from the long ago moment when they accidentally touched the magic).
Maybe "(I'm) Stranded" wasn't played at quite the same thundering, amphetamine rush/eardrum shredding speed of the original, but that's okay too. With the guitars sounding nearer three quarter paced, it fitted in seamlessly with the rest of the songs in the set and assumed a mature dignity that more than made up for the passing of some of that youthful aggression in the original (shit, young turks not born until after that record came out are old enough to have big mortgages, company BMWs and young families of their own by now).
There was at least one person who was not going gentle into that good night though and that was the knobhead standing right behind me. Wearing an old Saints "Casablanca" tee shirt, this moron insisted on pogoing aggressively into the small of my back to every Kuepper era song (but only the Kuepper era songs it seemed). He was in his late thirties, bespectacled, short haired and slightly built - "Hey look at me, I still rock, I'm cool!". I guess there's no telling in advance which ones a few too many sherbets from the bar will overwhelm and turn into gibbering idiots.
About two-thirds of the way through the show my new special friend The Dancing Loon even tried to get up onto the stage, though whether his intention was to dive off it, or merely to make some sort of passionate physical contact with members of the band, must forever remain a mystery as his mate dragged him back into the crowd as soon as he got one foot up onto the stage (and from the bewildered look on his face he couldn't for the life of him comprehend why his mate didn't think that this was such a good idea).
As the evening wore on and his hand/eye co-ordination evaporated, the prick also burnt my elbow with his cigarette. Fortunately I was wearing a short sleeve shirt, so the only damage was to flesh, which hopefully will heal in time, and not to expensive fabric (even more expensive now that the Target sale has ended). On the other hand, I probably shouldn't complain too much - I did set fire to my fair share of fellow punters in the '80s and early nineties before I finally managed to shake the habit (smoking I mean, not arson). In fact I recall one occasion in particular where I would have been carried out on a stretcher if the solidly built punter in front of me had realised not just that he now had a cigarette burn in the middle of the back of his brand new, velour jacket, but also how really big that hole had grown before I was able to flick the glowing embers off his jacket and onto the floor. But that was just an accident; could have happened to anyone; I wasn't drunk or anything...
Why am I so down on this clown and why isn't he simply allowed to have his bit of fun in whatever manner suits him? Well, when someone loudly calls out for "Big Hits... Big Hits... Big Hits on the Underground" barely five minutes AFTER the band has played that song, it tends to suggest that the person just isn't fuckin' listening (at least his mate standing next to him had the decency to look suitably embarrassed at knowing him). Of course it is hard to hear particularly well with your head right up your arse, but what's the point of going to a gig if you're not going to stay alert to what's going on while it's going on? Might as well stay at home, play your old records and leave the rest of us to enjoy the show in whatever manner suits us.
Of course he wasn't the only problem. Some idiot was also spraying his drink around, or maybe there was more than of one them since there seemed to be an awful lot of moisture being showered over the crowd around towards the end of the set. On stage, the band (Arturo "Arch" Larizza on bass, Iain Shedden on drums and Eddie Nystrom on the geetar) were unfazed, providing a solid businesslike foundation to the evening's entertainment while Mr Bailey kept his stage patter to a minimum and seemed to spend much of his time making deep and meaningful eye contact with someone in the crowd not too far behind me to my left (or maybe it's part of his stage act, though he definitely did seem to be making serious bedroom eyes at someone...).
Support for the evening was the ever entertaining Nanker Phelge. Not so long ago I was praying for their initial Exe show not to be their last, since the band started out as such an ad hoc project, and my prayers have since been answered conclusively, with several subsequent shows around town and at least one new (and usually either pretty obscure or totally unexpected) cover working it's way into the set each time. Tonight there didn't seem to be any new covers in the set (I'm still waiting for that threatened rendition of the Pretty Things' "Rosalyn" to make its appearance), but I suspect a lot of the punters this evening hadn't seen any of their recent shows (heck, a lot of the punters this evening hadn't seen any shows by anyone for up to a decade), so they wouldn't have noticed.
Perhaps because the originals have always been firm favourites, I continue to be impressed by their covers of the Who's "I Can't Explain" and the Kinks' "Till the End of the Day", though their version of the Beatles' "You Can't Do That" has a significantly harder edge to it than the original, which I also find satisfying. It goes pretty much without saying that Mr Younger singing the Hollies' "Look Through Any Window" has to be heard to be believed. The Phelge's set looked to be going over pretty well with the crowd, even if there were the usual handful of half hearted cries for whatever obscure Radio Birdman song the caller was able bring to mind at that moment. Such cries were ignored completely of course.
During the Saints' set, Mr Younger could even be seen tapping a toe while he enjoyed Mr Bailey's performance. Clearly he is long over the infamous "Hitler Youth" crack at the Paddington Town Hall show (give the ungrateful prick a support spot and he turns on you once he gets near a microphone, but everyone was so much younger and over exuberant then...). When you think about it, there's a real contrast between their two careers, with Mr Younger steadfastly refusing requests to do old Birdman songs, except in the company of the other ex-Birdman members, while Mr Bailey is happy to knock out a few Saints tunes with anyone who'll get up on stage with him...
The final word must belong to Mr Bailey though. I used to think that the Raven "Wild About You" compilation was pretty much the last word on the Saints (and I can't believe that no one here at the bar has ever gotten around to reviewing this magnificent collection/artifact), but tonight Mr Bailey managed to convince me that the later albums must also contain plenty of songs of more than passing interest. Time to cruise the on line CD stores, I guess...
