Credit: Found On Internet

The Scala
18th July 2006

As my friend and I lazed away the hours leading up to tonight’s gig in a quite King’s Cross pub, our conversation approached some familiar questions concerning modern rock music: will there ever be a new movement that isn’t 9/10 media constructed; can up-and-coming talent fully realise their artistic potential whilst being sold as a brand; and why were so many front men nowadays complete shite?
Our cider-swelled brains reeled at this last one, and ignoring any objective evaluation of the changing nature and diversification of modern music we concluded that they just didn’t make them like they used to: maniacal egotists backed by unfaltering rock monsters. Brilliant! Another pint and a self-satisfied smile all round!

But of course that’s all rubbish. A closer look and you find the sexy gender-bending Peaches; consider Flaming Lips’ transfixing comic book-mystic Wayne Coyne; and, on the strength of a recent string of British live shows, why not contemplate Sleepy Jackson’s Luke Steele.

With only two full-length albums Steele has made an interesting enough frontman in print. He’s battled drink problems, been applauded for his eclectic, melodic music, made audaciously arrogant statements about his talent and hired and fired enough band members to make Mark E Smith proud.

As the band speed through a set dominated by the largely unfamiliar new songs, Steele is just as much a compelling character on stage. Sporting a black bouffant hairdo more Princess of Wales than King of Rock, his opening handful of songs are attacked with splutters of white noise. He hisses into the mic, his feet control a plethora of foot pedals whilst he dishes out head-nods to both the crowd and the band. With his ashen face and hairspray-fro, he looks like a demented rag doll.
This abrasive display and the accompanying racket of pounding, overdrive-washed songs are at complete odds with the varied, lush production of his second LP, Personality. With the sound system set in the red, distorting throughout the set, Sleepy Jackson seem to be revelling in their reinvention as a garage band, with the steady beat of songs like Vampire Racecourse and Come To This making the transformation seamless. But anyone familiar with Steele’s first album, Lovers, will know that there’s simply no way of hiding the melodies, no matter how hard they thrash away. Good Dancers and Rain Falls for Wind make the crowd come alive, if only because of their familiarity in a set dominated by stripped down versions of unreleased songs.