Post by Admin on Jul 19, 2011 10:49:04 GMT -5
The Grim Northern Social, Chapel Ten
By Ali Swann
The Brickyard, Carlisle. Sunday 23rd November 2003
Turning up at the Brickyard as ridiculously early as I did, I walk in to find a much-needed burst of colour in the middle of the empty floor – padded red & yellow floor mats a foot high, great for diving onto. This has to be reassuring for Chapel Ten, as even by the late point they take to the stage there’s scarcely more than twenty punters milling about the place, and the band seem condemned to take a dive.
Being the seasoned boys they are, they take it in bullish style, with their opening triptych a bursting dam of doomy, hard-nosed rock swagger. They come up spitting teeth with a taste of Hooky and a swollen fist of Bonzo action, and their frontman Andy gives a curious spectacle... he looks like Pocahontas, sounds like Elvis Costello and sings like Mike Patton, which is one mean party trick, but wasted on a mean night like this. Carlisle’s gigging fraternity is evidently holding out for Livestock tomorrow, but the Brickyard House Band are undaunted by the underwhelming audience, and comfortable enough on the stage to deserve the title. Even if they can’t put a name to their best song.
Back to titles though, the Grim Northern Social doesn’t fit – I fondly imagine spiteful takes on Wigan Casino staples, or Ocean Colour Scene rode hard by ferocious vice, but such fantasies wilt in the face of what’s on offer – it’s Gay Dad with no lesbians, and these lot are too old, and a touch too studied, to carry off their Cooper Temple Clause haircuts. To be fair, their singer can sure project – making a show of it with plenty of epileptic shudders and bold arm-waving – and he has to put the work in, as few of the by-now fifty-strong audience are willing to venture any closer than Hooligan’s Island.
You might wonder what I thought of their tunes. So do I. The only one to make an impression on me was their signature piece ‘Grim Northern Social’, and even then it’s the failure to make any arresting statement of it that I remember. I left feeling that the whole set was short on tension, and grit, and grim for that matter. A name change may be in order. The Glam Northern Social? They probably thought it too obvious, which is sad because it’d suit them way more, even if it can’t make the songs shine more. The New York Dolls had premium debauchery and Malcolm McLaren on their side. Gay Dad had the music press on theirs. The Grim Northern Social will disappear between the cracks – so maybe the name isn’t appropriate yet, but it threatens to be prophetic.
By Ali Swann
The Brickyard, Carlisle. Sunday 23rd November 2003
Turning up at the Brickyard as ridiculously early as I did, I walk in to find a much-needed burst of colour in the middle of the empty floor – padded red & yellow floor mats a foot high, great for diving onto. This has to be reassuring for Chapel Ten, as even by the late point they take to the stage there’s scarcely more than twenty punters milling about the place, and the band seem condemned to take a dive.
Being the seasoned boys they are, they take it in bullish style, with their opening triptych a bursting dam of doomy, hard-nosed rock swagger. They come up spitting teeth with a taste of Hooky and a swollen fist of Bonzo action, and their frontman Andy gives a curious spectacle... he looks like Pocahontas, sounds like Elvis Costello and sings like Mike Patton, which is one mean party trick, but wasted on a mean night like this. Carlisle’s gigging fraternity is evidently holding out for Livestock tomorrow, but the Brickyard House Band are undaunted by the underwhelming audience, and comfortable enough on the stage to deserve the title. Even if they can’t put a name to their best song.
Back to titles though, the Grim Northern Social doesn’t fit – I fondly imagine spiteful takes on Wigan Casino staples, or Ocean Colour Scene rode hard by ferocious vice, but such fantasies wilt in the face of what’s on offer – it’s Gay Dad with no lesbians, and these lot are too old, and a touch too studied, to carry off their Cooper Temple Clause haircuts. To be fair, their singer can sure project – making a show of it with plenty of epileptic shudders and bold arm-waving – and he has to put the work in, as few of the by-now fifty-strong audience are willing to venture any closer than Hooligan’s Island.
You might wonder what I thought of their tunes. So do I. The only one to make an impression on me was their signature piece ‘Grim Northern Social’, and even then it’s the failure to make any arresting statement of it that I remember. I left feeling that the whole set was short on tension, and grit, and grim for that matter. A name change may be in order. The Glam Northern Social? They probably thought it too obvious, which is sad because it’d suit them way more, even if it can’t make the songs shine more. The New York Dolls had premium debauchery and Malcolm McLaren on their side. Gay Dad had the music press on theirs. The Grim Northern Social will disappear between the cracks – so maybe the name isn’t appropriate yet, but it threatens to be prophetic.
