If, as part of a stage set, you have an oversized, illuminated sign featuring the word 'applause', that should probably shine at the end of every song, but you use it only intermittently, is it misplaced modesty, or an explicit critical judgement?
Let's ask The Bluetones, shall we. Amongst the various vaguely postmodern, slightly kitsch gestures compromising their stage set are: a large crest, regally inscribed, "the legendary Bluetones since 1995"; the selectively employed 'applause' sign and a ten minute interval. That's right, a ten minute interval.
Tonight's show, then, something like a game of two halves. As Mark Morriss and the boys nip backstage for some half-time oranges, the football analogies won't be lost on a group of fans furiously waving their Bluetones scarves in the air. They may not be picking up on Morriss' little winks at the mainly female members of the front row, though.
It's easy to understand their infatuation. Half of tonight's joy comes simply from watching the elastic frontman, his mic stand frantically gliding along the stage, at constant variations upon forty-five degrees to the surface. The deceptively encouraging tones of classics along the lines of 'Bluetonic', or maybe 'Slight Return', or even 'Solomon Bites The Worm' make up the other half then, feelings of sheer delight elicited by the warmth, complexity and pop-tones muddled up in every number.
Little treats like 'Marblehead Johnson', or the reflective b-side strains of 'I Knew A Teenage Jesus' help too, conspiring to create a surprisingly inclusive atmosphere. The potentially pretentious interval doesn't interrupt the flow at all, patrons patiently awaiting the inevitable return, perhaps pondering just how the Bluetones arrived here. There's something
quite perverse about them, a dark undercurrent exhibiting itself tonight in new single 'Mudslide', and a folk-tinged version of 'Keep the Home Fires Burning', featuring singer Morriss on mandolin duties, bizarrely.
Tuning in briefly, you wonder just what the refrain, "how am I gonna get my white shirts clean" actually means. Maybe we don't want to know. Underneath the tailored appearances, there's something potentially wicked going on, and contrary to critical belief, it's all rather exciting.
Applause all round, then…
