Frontman and songwriter Jason Lytle has described Grandaddy's current, third album 'Sumday' as being concerned with 'mid-life reflection'. Maybe it's the Californian in him that shrinks from an alarmist word like 'crisis', but even Lytle's description seems a trifle premature for these five unassuming young men from Modesto.
Age concerns aside, though, he's right. Grandaddy's appeal hinges on the dreamily introspective quality of their songs, their way with a hazy, sun-glazed melody and their powerful but downbeat delivery. Listening to these bizarrely bearded, modern minstrels on record has always been rather like falling asleep in the late afternoon sun after a few pints; you come slowly round, head enveloped by a comforting fug, relishing every languid moment of your slo-mo awakening.
Aesthetically, Grandaddy favour the fug - even to the point of inserting that squashy 'ph' in the title of their second LP - and steer well clear of sonic sharp edges, smudging every note with reverb and sweetening every harmony with woozy layering. Even that characteristic, fat chugga of their guitars is not a driving force, but ballast.
All of which suggests Grandaddy would be a transport of delight tonight, their irresistibly melancholic, otherworldly dreams made flesh (or is that phlesh?), pumped into life by the five's dynamism and verve. Alas not. Inside a venue so tightly packed a sardine would express health and safety concerns and where a spell of unseasonably hot weather has converted the air into a damp skin-slick, the soporific sensuousness so entrancing on record simply wilts and cannot be revived.
Grandaddy's songs - the opening 'Hewlett's Daughter', with its neatly arpeggiated keyboard runs, the luminous 'Crystal Lake', the haunting 'I'm On Standby', a lugubrious 'Lost On Yer Merry Way' and on, until their encore of 'He's Simple He's Dumb He's The Pilot' - are all unarguably superb, but the band's unprepossessing demeanour and their refusal to do anything but stand there and play them results in a delivery that's limper than week-old lettuce. If it weren't for the sweet, back- projected images - tree felling, dirt bike races, skateboarding and a parade of close-up creepy crawlies - this would be only slightly more engaging than queuing in the post office for an hour with your headphones on.
Grandaddy have no need of shtick - after all, part of their appeal is their knack for turning an unabashed fondness for ELO and 10CC to their lovely, oddball advantage - but live, it's a fine line between elegant enervation and plain exhaustion. Less isn't always more. Sometimes, it's just less.
