Any series of concerts cooked up by Mojo Magazine and curators at the Royal Festival Hall was always likely to be a pretty muso affair. You can almost smell the dusty vinyl and Theakstons winter warmer in the foyer this evening, as duffle coated indie types swap notes on just how great their spiritual leader and headline act for this collection of gigs, Brian Wilson, really was. Of course, Wilson was sublime. It's pointless denying it. Nonetheless, for those hankering after something new and slightly less anoraky, then tonight's appearance of Simian represents something of a Godsend.
At the risk of sounding pretentious (the deeply reverential atmosphere of these gigs almost demands it) Simian are a band of exciting contradictions - whose music precariously balances a line between warm humanity and enticing anonymity. They meld intricate acoustic guitar with loping breakbeats and swathes of Hammond with retro mini moog to create carefully assembled musical collages - where each noise sounds utterly indispensable, as if the song would simply collapse without it.
When Simian really get going, as in 'What A Dream' and 'Orange Glow', it's almost like the music takes on a momentum of it's own. It's all the band can do to keep control and steer it in the right direction. Their keyboard player sits restlessly throughout, as if behind the handlebars of the most powerful motorbike on the road, whilst the other three members stand heads down toiling over their instruments like mad scientists on the verge of a Eureka moment. No one so much as looks at the audience and the closest we get to on-stage banter is a self conscious "thank you" at the end of each piece. Status Quo they are not. Yet, somehow the tension they create on stage is hypnotically compelling.
When the High Llamas finally shamble on stage they prove to be a much more straight forward, and as a consequence, much less interesting proposition. Having augmented their line up with string and brass sections the Llama's embark on a ramshackle trawl through their back catalogue, including a tortuously long 'jazz odyssey' style reading of their recent collaboration with artist Jean Pierre Muller.
There's nothing much wrong with it. Sean O'Hagan's laid back hippy demeanour has a charm of sorts and despite the inescapable sense that we have somehow stumbled into a rather lavish Llama's practice session (the band spend most of the gig whispering into each others ears and looking to their drummer for guidance) the sound is impeccable.
The problem perhaps lies with the blinding predictability of it all. For a band that have trumpeted their influences so loudly over the years, most of which appear to begin and end with Smile era Beach Boys, the Llama's seem incapable of transcending the limits of their own, doubtless marvellous, record collections. Which is all very fine, just don't ask a trailblazing new band like Simian to fill the support slot, that's all.
