The Metro club on Oxford Street is ideal for gigs, namely rock gigs. It's at the end of a stairway that leads underground, its dark and as fans swarm into the venue, it becomes rather intimate.
Walking into the club, there's a sign by the cash register that 'Les Incompetents', the band that was due to headline had cancelled for reasons that weren't disclosed. This only left 2 bands on the bill; The V Formation and The Living Things. However much impressed I was by The V Formation's performance, I was solely there to concentrate on the latter band.
The interval music between the two bands comprised of the kind of indie-rock that had overtaken the charts in recent years. When the band did appear on stage to undergo the mandatory sound-check, the background music began to skip on virtually every track that followed and as a result rushing the band to begin their show.
I think the audience was as surprised as I was when the lead singer swiftly appeared on stage wearing, what could only be described as a unique beige waistcoat and trouser combo that boasted an emaciated frame. Instantly I was reminded of Peter Gabriel's extravert dress sense from the infancy of Genesis, hair that was clearly fashioned on Robert Plant's and a stage character base that rivaled that of Mick Jagger. Whether intentional or not, it was eye catching, but I suppose as the front man of band you have to be. Each member of the band had a dissimilar hair-style to the other, but a common theme of attire amongst them was the cowboy boots.
I have to say that I was very impressed by the band. They were tight and full of catchy guitar riffs that you couldn't help but tap your feet to. Melodies, that if ever broke into the main would be aired frequently.
Nevertheless, I wasn't as impressed by the vocals, for two reasons. Firstly and it's not a strong reason, but I couldn't understand what he was saying. Perhaps, that's not down to him, but rather the sound technician who hadn't turned the microphone loud enough. Secondly, there wasn't much individuality to his style, but that's in no way disparaging the energetic and somewhat evangelical theatrics that he demonstrated.
Lillians interaction with the crowd progressed the longer they were on stage, from randomly professing "basically we're white trash" to slithering over to three beautiful girls stood near myself and uttering something undistinguishable. However, this was the pleasant distraction I needed from his spellbinding façade.
His exit from stage was as ambiguous as his entrance. Without warning the song finished and the vocalist swung the microphone into the air and vanished off stage like a wannabe rock legend, while the audience and I were distracted by an annoying thud that cursed from the speakers.
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