Florence & The Machine, The Checks, Turbo Fruits – Metro Club, London 21/08/07

Oxford Street: small club, big sounds, no shopping. Let’s get straight to it. First up and unbilled, Florence and the Machine were a bit of a punk-folk (pulk? fonk?) revelation. Starting solo a cappella, this slip of a girl produced a startling song with the folk ballad vocal punctuated with the glottal decoration of a Kalahari bushman. It certainly got the attention of the early punters. Backed for the rest of the set by nimble acoustic guitar work from her partner (in both senses of the word), the scatty inter-song patter was engaging and the kookiness continued with the whimsical stagecraft of Kate Bush. Meanwhile that delicate frame was packing the fiesty growl of a Janis Joplin as well as the smooth pastoral tones of a Sandy Denny. The mike was practically redundant. To shoe horn in one final reference, the whole package was reminiscent of Canadian elfin misfit Mary Margaret O’Hara – one of my personal treasures. Iggy Pop and Cold War Kids covers were included, but their self-penned songs were consistently good. I saw a solo Martha Wainwright open for Wilco last year. This was better, and they were generally well received.

New Zealand’s The Checks are about as subtle as a spear tackle from Tana Umaga – and there’s nothing wrong with that (or rather there is, but I’ll take that particular rugby discussion outside with the lads). They do exactly what it says on their tin of untouchable musical influences, and at their best they do it with the cocky swagger of a circa ’65 Stones. You do want to be on their cloud. Guitarist Sven Pettersen even has a passing resemblance to Brian Jones – cultivating an aura of disinterested cool from his blonde mop-top down to his cuban heels. More importantly, he’s got the chops. The corresponding comparison for singer Ed Knowles is too lazy. There’s the confidence of a young Jagger, but none of the self-preening and a much, much sturdier voice – a couple more years of beer and fags and he may have something to match fellow pocket rocker Steve Marriott. A teenage Bono is closer in style, and when the spirit moves him there’s some of the manic showmanship of The Hives’s Howlin’ Pelle Almqvist. For all these references thrown in to give you some idea, it’s worth saying that there is something special about the guy that’s of his own making. He’s a natural frontman who doesn’t mind showing he’s enjoying himself – no indie reserve here.

The crowd were settling into the set, helped by a receptive sprinkling of fellow countrymen, but positive murmers were also audible from those just arrived on the off-chance for a beer. A more visible demonstration of approval could have been forthcoming, but the proliferation of man-bags (What’s that all about? Somewhere to keep the hair care products?) seemed to be weighing many down. The raucous rallying calls of singles What You Heard and Take Me There might have been dropped too early into the set to get the response they really deserve.

God has smiled on The Checks so far, but they’ve made their own luck with a punishing work ethic and raw talent. They’ve been hand-picked for support by the likes of R.E.M, and Noel Gallagher has been quoted as saying the two best bands in Britain are Kasabian and The Checks. That’s only 50% bollocks there this time then Noel. The shadow of Jet looms large – having crashed and burned with the critics after achieving success with a similar no nonsense rock’n’roll approach. The Checks have to negotiate the tricky art of making it big without being subsequently discarded by the increasing fickle music scene. In a sense I’m feeding that fire by raising the point, and now is not the time. Just enjoy the moment – band and audience alike. The youth and charisma of Ed Knowles might make a difference, but they need to keep producing the goods too. Autumn album Hunting Whales is being produced by Ian Broudie, so I’m hoping he’ll keep them out of the more turgid depths of Led Zep bluesy riff-rock. A couple of songs were signposted that way. Variety sure, but keep the swagger. Think The Black Crowes. Think sexy like a line break by Dan Carter. Just as long as the All Blacks don’t win the world cup – they’ll be bloody unbearable.

And last and unfortunately least: Turbo Fruits. They come from Nashville Tennessee but they ain’t ever gonna play the Grand ’Ole Opry. This is a side project of Be Your Own Pet. Such efforts are usually a chance to experiment with new sounds and styles. Here the journey of exploration had taken them as far as a lock-up garage down a dead end street called thrash metal. Once they’d come up with a throbbing baseline and a volume knob twisted to eleven, the experimentation seemed to have ended. After five or six songs I could not distinguish much between them, only Volcano being notable for the endless repetition of the title word. I bailed out at this point. I could use the excuse that I’d been out the night before, and in fairness this was never going to be my thing, but there was a noticeable dip in atmosphere in the whole club. Turbo yes – all revving engines but going nowhere fast.

Links
Florence & The Machine [myspace]
The Checks [myspace]
Turbo Fruits [myspace]