Caught on a wave of skyscraping anthemics, Tom Chaplin thrusts his microphone stand and swings back his pseudo pre-raphaelite curls with the sweet abandon of someone apparently oblivious to his lack of credentials. Keane seem to be the antithesis of what rock & roll is supposed to be.
Robbed an opportunity to sing the blues for fear of ridicule of their laments of life on the ‘mean streets’ of Sussex, they rattle the architecture with their melodic bombast. Eschewing the traditional life paths of public school boys - suicide or the civil service - to reinvent the power trio, Keane bring songs of hope with such wistful wonder as “Somewhere Only We Know”, whilst simultaneously putting the fear of Jehovah into jobbing bass players. But hey who needs a big bottom anyway?
Its been a meteoric rise that now firmly ensconces their debut platter in the nation’s Ford Mondeos. Maybe the masses aren’t asses after all. The 45s off “Hopes & Fears” tonight shimmer, even with the assistance of the faithful on harmony (and that abstract sense of tonality that follows three pints and a packet of pork scratchings). The other songs, well there were some...and they were little more memorable than that.
As a not regular attendee of The Smash Hits Poll Winners Party, LAUNCH can still appreciate the wheat/chaff ‘all killer no filler’ editorial policy. Perhaps the Machiavellian puppeteers of indie-dom can get their noggins together and thrash out some kind of deal. Surely there should be an apprenticeship programme in place by now, a YTS scheme or a City & Guilds with a proviso that you don’t get the neon ELVIS letters behind you until you’ve had a Number One in Sweden and/or smoked crack with Rick James.
Packing a second long player in the back pocket, a crispy Keane ticket will be hotter than some of the shiny electrical equipment those nice men were selling on the way to the venue, meanwhile the vicarious pleasure of watching posh people swearing and hot synth-on-synth action is really entertainment enough.
