As any fool knows, rock’n’roll is the last place to search for authenticity. The whole point is to embrace a fantasy of what life can be, find yourself a role outside conventional society and reject the straitjacket imposed by The Man – right? Right. So it’s irrelevant that Kaiser Chiefs used to be a Stooges-aping garage rock band called Parva, just as it matters not that The Bravery’s Sam Endicott was the dreadlocked singer in a ska band. What matters is that the stuff they’re doing now is good.
But is it good? At first glance, the Kaisers appear to be reviving the worst aspects of Britpop, what with their pork-pie hats, mockney vocals (“This is the modern wye”) and general air of cheeky-chappiness. At times they’re chillingly reminiscent of “Great Escape”-era Blur, but fortunately a few things set them apart. There’s none of Damon Albarn’s sneering social commentary, for one thing; the Kaisers instead dissect chav culture in a twinkly, amusing way. Also, assured frontman Ricky Wilson seems mercifully unburdened by the identity-crisis insecurities that beset the Blur singer. But most importantly, the Kaisers’ default mode is a celebratory one, where Blur tended to stake out boorish, end-of-the-pier territory.
Tonight, as they slickly lay siege to a packed Astoria, there’s an opportunity to reflect how much the Kaisers have achieved. It’s not just that they’ve risen from footing the bill on the NME Awards Tour in January to colonising the Top 10 in March, or caused enough of a stir in the States to be invited on Letterman. There’s more: thanks to Ricky Wilson, it’s now acceptable for blonde, ruddy blokes to wear eyeliner, while Nick Hodgson has made it seem wise to let drummers write songs. No mean feat.
There is, however, some evidence that a toll is being taken by the Kaisers’ ludicrously intense work schedule. In January, they charmed audiences with their boundless, puppy-dog enthusiasm; even sceptics got swept along in the adrenaline rush. Tonight, though, only Wilson and bassist Simon Rix muster much energy, and even they seem slightly punch-drunk. Meanwhile, the machine-like efficiency that comes with constant touring has chipped away at the band’s spontaneity and scruffy appeal.
Lit by an arena-sized rig, the Kaisers now seem remote, as well as knackered. These, it seems, are the by-products of success – but do they have to be? Must the butterfly always be crushed by the wheel?
