Gig played on 13/06/05

The fickle winds of fashion haven't exactly been kind to Olly Knights and Gail Paridjanian, seeing them celebrated and then just as quickly chased from the pages of music weeklies in the space of four short years. Like the other survivors of the shockingly ill-conceived New Acoustic Movement, they've developed something of an 'acoustic complex'.

Tonight, it sees them gang-up on the Empire with a full band, complete with redundant keyboard fills. It even, at one point, sees them both strap on electric guitars, a vision no less incongruous than, say, Motley Cru attending a piano recital. And sadly, for lovers of the more beatific reveries from their beautiful debut album, they appear to be enjoying themselves more than they have in years.

Its not as if they avoid "The Optimist", in fact they play more or less all the album's finest moments, fully conscious, it seems, that they hit a rare seam early on. But they do turn most of it up to 11 where the power of Knights' voice, the wall of two breathlessly strummed guitars and that band leave little space for the musical fine points to make themselves heard.

Lyrics, best described as charmingly naive and at worst hackneyed and crass, have never been Turin Brakes' strong point. Guitar and voice conspired on "The Optimist" to blind you to the fact that Knights was committing songwriting faux pas as incomprehensible as allowing the word "syphilis" to gatecrash his songs. Now, though, you're forced to concede that he's reached new peaks of banality. Shimmering recent single, "Fishing For A Dream" just escapes its reference to "celebrity parties" by virtue of its undeniably genuine sentiments, but really, celebrity parties are even less welcome here than the keyboard feedback plaguing the evening.

Thankfully, they take to the stools mid-set and deliver beautiful versions of their two finest songs, at least those songs that'll outlive their current incarnation. The first, "Future Boy", is sensational, aided in its stabbing pangs of yearning for stolen summers by a house drowned in ever-dependable mirror ball magic. Then, "Feeling Oblivion" conjures the sensation of falling backwards with arms outstretched into something certain, something fantastically comforting with just exquisite zither-like guitar and barely-there piano keys.

In fact, it seems the band themselves have retreated from the vagaries of a hostile press, falling into the arms of a comfortable but unchallenging audience. One that will keep them in Shepherd's Bush shows for some years to come. It's worth remembering, though, that this is a duo that once flirted with greatness.

by James Poletti