When rock'n'roll diehards complain about the perceived gentrification of Glastonbury, one can only assume they have never been to a gig at Somerset House.
Glasto may now be seen as part of the establishment summer season, but these shows in this grand courtyard off The Strand have more in common with Glyndebourne than the Barfly. Here, architecture is admired, sandals are worn, and the beer queues are more reminiscent of your local bank than a sticky club. The music's nice, too. How terribly civilised.
When, on a perfect hot night, clammy punk rock venues lack a certain appeal, Somerset House's double bill of Yo La Tengo and Calexico becomes more desirable than ever. Two bands beloved of the thirtysomething ex-indie kid: good tunes, good humour, a little jazz and mariachi for the open-minded, even a splatter of experimental noise. What more could you ask for?
Decent sound, perhaps, since Yo La Tengo's music seems to be battling the walls of Somerset House for much of their set. Traditionally, Yo La gigs are epic, gracefully unravelling things. Tonight, however, they play for one hour instead of the usual two, and the extremes of their music are more jarring. One moment, they're playing the downy, muted lullabies from this spring's excellent 'Summer Sun'.
The next, Ira Kaplan seems duty-bound to disrupt the venue's tranquility with some high-tension skronk on his guitar or organ. It's a brave dichotomy, but it leaves the set feeling stuttery and awkward. Only at the end, when a watery cosmic jam evolves into the call-and-response beatnik psychosis of Sun Ra's 'Nuclear War', do they really take off.
If Yo La Tengo exploit the occasion by being fissile, challenging, a little perverse, Calexico are much more accommodating. Tonight, we're privy to Calexico Redux: all their colour and texture, all their grasp of place and myth, given a strident and accessible new motor. Essentially, it's a greatest hits set, taking in plenty of their superb 2003 album, 'Feast Of Wire', alongside the highlights of their back catalogue - notably a rollicking 'Crystal Frontier' - and a cover version of Love's 'Alone Again Or' that captures the fragility and quicksilver spirit of the original just as well as Arthur Lee did in his Festival Hall gigs earlier this year.
There is, of course, a certain incongruity about this music - so strongly rooted in the American south-west, redolent of deserts and border crossings - being played in such sedate, English surroundings. But in a way, the oddness suits Calexico. Here, after all, are a band based in Tucson, Arizona whose diverse origins epitomise the city's reputation for drifters and transplants - one of the fine mariachi trumpeters, Martin Wenk, is German, after all.
And, as weird attempts at dancing spread across the courtyard and the temperature refuses to fall, it's hard to imagine a better way to spend a summer evening. Classy.
