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It was a beautiful summers evening, blue skis high above Camden. Outside KOKO a crowd older than the club’s usual patrons were queuing to witness Mr. Paul Weller and his latest offerings, all part of the iTunes Festival.
There was the occasional chant of, “WE ARE THE MODS” “WE ARE THE MODS”“WE ARE THE MODS”, signifying that the excessive boredom of waiting to get in (only ever rivalled by the boredom of the backstage area) had forced more than a few to the Sainsbury’s next door in search of hard liquor. Over by the side of the road some whacked-out freak-show stumbled up and leaned against the railings; he was wearing a blazer, a weird shirt, beaten up sneakers, oversized sunglasses and lurking dangerously. For a spilt second I thought I was looking in a mirror.

In the past few years there had hardly been much excitement about Paul Weller and his latest offerings, even the promotional iTunes Festival programme admitted this. However this seemed to be changing with the release of '22 Dreams'; “The Modfather” had apparently been reinvigorated some what and tonight’s performance was therefore quite anticipated , almost as if there was some dull buzz of electricity in the air, something important returning. Then again, anticipation can always lead to grievous disappointment

Finally the guest list queue gets moving and we are ushered in to the venue. What’s in my bag? A camera. Well I was told I could take photographs for the first three songs of the set, right? Mr. Weller’s management have decided there will be not photography tonight? So what do I do with my camera? The cloakroom? Ok, how much? £2? I only have £1.50? I have to use that cash machine that is going to charge me for the privilege? Oh for fucks sake, so no camera means ipso facto no pictures to go with the review. When I turn around from the cloakroom desk there is some hired geek of sorts taking photographs of people entering the venue, apparently for Xfm. I growl at him before he has a chance to ask to take my photograph. Maybe they would have let me bring my camera in if I had told them I was going to take photographs of complete strangers so they can tag themselves on facebook or some other social networking waste of time. Or maybe I could swallow a pint of liquid rat poison and be done with it.

I calm down pretty quickly, there are an awful lot of security guards milling around checking passes and I reason it is not worth it. I walk through the familiar dark corridors without passing a singe person under the age of thirty; maybe I was wrong, maybe this is just a Revivalist-Mod reunion, an elephant graveyard for the angelic upstarts of yesteryear, put on by the good folks at iTunes. Mod classics like “Green onions” and laid back Soul are piped through the PA, I find a spot on one of the highest balconies looking down on the crowd, a mix of skinheads and cuts that are evidently in emulation of Mr. Weller’s current elfish hair style. The pre-show atmosphere feels more like an epidosde of Trisha than a Rock concert: there are professional TV cameras and crews swooping all over the place, extra lightning, sound men scrambling about, the works. When the presenter finally takes the stage his requests strike me as truly bizarre, first outlining health and safety concerns, namely that nobody get on anyone else’s shoulders lest they be decapitated by a camera swooping down on a huge robotic arm. Then he asks the audience to applause, so the sound crew can sound check THEM. That is a new one. The audience are informed that they will be rewarded with free downloads on iTunes courtesy of the pieces of card on lanyards dangling around their necks. As far as I can remember the gimmick is that they can download tonight’s concert through the iTunes store, which to some extent explains the sound check of the audience. I still thought it was pretty absurd though.

Finally the presenter does the honourable thing and leaves, but not before presenting Glasvegas. I have known people who have changed their haircuts because they thought they bore similarities to this band, yet at the same time I have read countless reviews claiming this band were IT, the NME claiming Glasvegas were the best band in Britain or something to that effect.

They came on, some lights started flashing and twisting around them and they started playing. At first I just could not work it out; to me their sound seemed stalled somewhere between a U2 tribute band and Coldplay but with a shed load of feedback. Initially I thought the feedback was a mistake but it appeared it was actually part of their ‘sound’. Did they decide at some point they really dug that whole Sonic Youth/ Velvet Underground deal of just letting one guitar scream itself to pieces while the rest of the instruments kept it together? It was hard to tell. I quickly came to the conclusion that this band would do well; they had one of the most important music papers in the country behind them and their music was bland, repetitive and not offensive in any way, perfect chart fodder. On more than one occasion I honestly thought they were covering a song by The Smiths, albeit with all the life sucked out of it.

In the end Glasvegas astounded me. They astounded me because they were the first band that has ever put me to sleep at a live Rock concert. Well, that is not entirely true, one other band did many years ago, but that was more a case of me trying to fall asleep and pretend I was somewhere else. Glasvegas actually put me to sleep; I drifted off leaning against the balcony rail, half drunk Cuban in hand, regardless of the volume of the music. After they left the stage I decided I needed another drink, maybe with Red Bull this time to wake me up. Yet at the bar, lo behold, the girl next to me actually echoed my sentiments! “That was really boring” I laughed. “Then again” She said “They must be shitting it, I mean they’ve got to pre-empt Paul Weller” True. “But still, at least if you go to, say, a Morrissey concert, it’s a good kind of bad” I decided to let that comment about Morrissey slide. “And they’re the next big thing according to the NME?” I shrugged and clinked glasses with her, then walking off to find a sofa to brood on.

After a while a roar erupted from the crowd, I leapt up and made my way to the balcony to find that Mista Weller had taken the stage. Backed by a tight band of Ocean Colour Scene/ Brit Pop veterans stood “The Modfather”, in a modest dark shirt and plain jeans, slashing energetically away at his Telecaster, occasionally chucking his arm into a windmill power chord, shaking his guitar whilst nimbly dancing along the stage. From the first song Weller was in perfect control of the proceedings, his voice floating over the swirling sustained Hammond organ, bold guitar, solid bass and metronymic drums. Weller presented a persona blended somewhere between Pete Townsend and Steve Marriot that he had cultivated so effectively in The Jam.

The set started off with Weller’s most recent work from “22 Dreams”, yet done with a such youthful energy which had been seemingly been absent from his previous work as of recent. “22 Dreams” has been hailed as another “Wildwood” or “Stanley Road” and the songs certainly showed that level of strength and character. Further to this Weller was being generous with his audience, there was no stigma about his previous work, instead it was embraced; from The Jam to The Style Council to the fore mentioned solo works “Wildwood” and “Stanley Road”, it was as if Weller was now drawing on his extensive portfolio of work, reinvigorated with same the energy he had some twenty years ago, except now having the experience to pick and choose the most desirable qualities. In short this was Weller climbing back to the top and he was evidently enjoying himself.

He switched from electric guitar to acoustic, to piano and back again, taking the proceedings from power Rock complete with neat lead guitar work to Psychedelic soundscapes of looped feedback that could put the likes of Radiohead and Sigur Ros to shame and then to his gentler moments such as “You Do Something To Me” and “Changing Man”.

The set concluded by Weller giving his adoring masses what they wanted, ripping into The Jam classic “Eaton Rifles”. At this point he had his public in the palm of his hand , commanding their every move, a floor full of skinheads and dressy shirts moving as one, with a football chant going up, “EAT-UN RIE-FULLS!” “EAT-UN RIE-FULLS!” “EAT-UN RIE-FULLS!” Each chorus was like a house brick shattering a plate glass window, bottles tumbled down from the balcony drenching this scrum in fizzy larger whilst the cameras craned up and down attempting to catch it all and regurgitation it for iTunes’s patrons at home. Weller rips his guitar off, stands it up against his amp and sends it into a spiralling feedback loop before picking it up again, stepping back to the mic and with a wry smile sets off another football chant.
The public evidently have got what the public wants.

The song ends, Weller politely bows and walks off the stage as a deafening roar erupts. The hallowed and expected custom, Weller returns and with the aid of his band gives an encore of “Wishing Well” and then finally “All You Need Is Love”, transforming the scrum into a sea of smiling faces with their arms around each others shoulders swaying in unison.

I walked outside the venue and cracked open a beer under the dark night sky, content that what I had just witnessed had not been a Mod elephant graveyard or the pre-emptive wake of some fallen Pop star of yesteryear, but rather a celebration of one of the jewels in the crown of British Pop music getting back on top. Those who had doubted Weller had best watch their backs; he is reclaiming his rightful place as a serious force to be reckoned with, windmill power chords and all.

By Dann Gaymer

www.myspace.com/paulweller
www.myspace.com/glasvegas


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