There's a back-to-business air tonight. Twelve months ago, Mark 'E' Everett, frontman and guiding light of the Eels, was moving away from the whole rock and roll thing. Gigs were played out in a music hall style, peculiar moments of cabaret sitting in delicate balance with trademark tales of tedium and loathing.
Oddly, despite their reputation, the Eels were playing to their strengths. Searching out his place on the stage with his oft-present flashlight, Mark Everett is a walking, talking, piano playing figure of tragicomedy. Comely drummer Butch, clad in ill-fitting shorts this evening, is a perfect foil, fully tuned in to his own absurdity.
For a band who habitually tackle death and destruction, they sure don't take themselves too seriously. So relaxed are they, a cover of 'Get Ur Freak On' can be dropped into the mix at a moment's notice, their thoroughly nasty rendition lifting the mood after just three songs, without apology or acknowledgement.
To be followed by 'Dog Faced Boy', an indescribable tale of childhood disenchantment, a manic clatter completely lacking in universal truths, and all the better for it, with E's sneering refrain, "you little punks think you own this town" appropriately drowning out the chatter from the back rows.
Given that, and the chainsaw riffs of 'Souljacker Pt 1', a descent into the world of serial killer kudos, you might suggest that with the release of their fourth album, that the Eels have made yet another attempt to abandon pretence. After the affected misery that defined their early years, and the enjoyablely unsettling sardonic joy of 'Daises of the Galaxy', the Eels finally seem comfortable. Comfortable, that is, nodding in the direction of ol' skool rock and roll, while maintaining a healthy disregard for normality.
So we shouldn't play the macabre card too emphatically. 'Souljacker Pt 2' is a fine companion piece to the recent single, angry defiance swapped for a meek, childlike resistance, E bleating, "the souljacker can't get my soul." 'Fresh Feeling' sweetly embodies the feeling of rebirth, while expelling a peculiarly masculine fatalism. And 'Mr E's Beautiful Blues', as ever, is a simple delight, cartoonish rays of artificial sunlight dancing shamelessly around the venue in perfect time.
Then, just to prove that the sense of humour hasn't been left behind completely, Butch takes to the microphone, and with a strong leading vocal, relays the tale of a sad clown. It's the simple story of having, "shoes so big that people stare", relayed with pantomime expressions of pain. It's a perfect parody that reduces every trite moment of musical sadness to the level of a tacky Athena poster, delivered with the kind of humility that could just make the world a better place. But if they achieved that, then we wouldn't need the Eels anymore, and that might just be too high a price to pay.
