Paperjam

Tindersticks at Royal Festival Hall, May 2008

Gigs // Jim // 12th May 2008

Tindersticks: A Prologue

“You like, just, sort of punk music, don’t you?” she said with a doubtful sideways glance, taking a sip of beer.

Reflecting on this I replied, “Yes, I suppose so. I use it as some kind of cathartic replacement for my complete inability to properly laugh, actually cry, or to express any sort of real affection - especially to anyone that I actually really like. A good example quite probably being you.”

I say replied.

What I really mean is that I thought all of the above as loudly as I possibly could.

But what actually came out of my mouth was was: “Well yeah, sort of… But I do really like Tindersticks too...”

Tindersticks: at the Royal Festival Hall

I’m waiting on the platform at Marylebone, listening to a bit of Spiritualized. The tube train stops and the doors open, I start walking in, they close almost immediately. My arms are pinned to my sides. People are shouting advice at me but Jason Pierce is yelling in my ears about being in love and on smack and it being vaguely similar. I can’t hear anything else.

For a fleeting moment I think I might die like this and wonder if it would really be such a bad thing. I wrestle free of the doors. Feel very liberated. Only briefly though; the automated jaws snap shut once more and now my bag is stuck.

It’s a team effort to get the doors open between my fellow passengers and I. Once sorted, the lady next to me says “Bloody hell, they must be in a real hurry today.” The old boy on the other side says, “What do you expect now that Boris is in charge?” I nod at him in a way that I hope says “Yes, comrade”. Everyone else glares at me – I retreat down the carriage.

A short while later, we’re sat on the terrace of the Oxo tower bar (we collectively shat it at trying to get in the restaurant) and I’m thinking about telling Vanessa the prologue story. Realise she’s heard far too many stories like that before, so instead we settle into an amazingly grown-up conversation about the politics of immigration, positive discrimination and the quality of the candidates on The Apprentice (I vomit discreetly in a nearby champagne bucket).

While this thirty-something discourse is taking place Vanessa sorts out a rather amazing looking plate of Thai pork patties while I enjoy some kind of beef/pesto/mushroom/ginger/salad affair that goes down very nicely with my third beer of the afternoon.

There is a minor disagreement about dessert but the chocolate brownies are despatched at quite a rate - especially by the person who said she didn’t want any.

The south bank is saturated by people who are probably really good street entertainers. There are also plenty who definitely aren’t; they are all too close together and you can’t tell the wheat from the chaff. We stroll round the back of County Hall and find an intriguing Italian bar.

Vanessa spends half an hour studying the menu while I pointlessly banter with the barstaff. She settles on an Amaretto Sour and I get an Espresso Martini. Oh yes.

I e-mail a photo of my drink to make Nick jealous. Then I have a sip of Vanessa’s cocktail – it is completely amazing. We hatch a plan to have several more while a woman in the corner stares at me with the sort of venom that wouldn’t be out of place if I had just strolled up, ruffled her hair and wanked in her drink.

Time is marching on so we saunter down to the Royal Festival Hall. After some enquiries with a security bloke who takes the piss just a little bit too much we work out where we need to go to get in.

I’ve got tickets in the stalls towards the back, but it still seems quite cool in a sort of “we built and decorated this place in the late 60’s” sort of way. We haven’t got a clue what the names on all of the seats represent – it seems a bit like being at the football to me, especially when people turn up late and we all have to stand up while rescuing our beer off the floor.

The support act is called Sarah Lowes who might have done a bit of singing on Stuart Staples last album. She is shitting it, I feel bad for her. As soon as she starts singing though, you wouldn’t realise there were any nerves going on - she has a really strong voice that lilts over the top of some Nyman-esque piano action while her mate on the drums subtly joins in.

Sarah gives out a bit more self-deprecation before grabbing a guitar and doing a couple of really blinding songs, one involving playing the kazoo in place of a saxophone solo. It’s ace.

She finishes off with some less ace stuff and they go off to get “very drunk”. Fair enough, I’m really surprised that she was so nervous considering how good they were.

I’m still talking about this as we join the amazingly civil queue for the bar. After a twenty-minute wait we get to the counter and some geezer has pushed in to the front, even though the queue snakes around almost the entire venue. Cheeky fucker.

Decide not to get arsey about it and take our drinks out onto the balcony. Vanessa is a bit inquisitive about what Tindersticks actually sound like as I’ve corralled her along with no prior knowledge. I try to explain – it doesn’t go well, particularly when the words “Jazz” and “Lounge” are mentioned. We decide to admire the view and then go back to our seats.

Tindersticks take to the stage gradually playing a seemingly arythmic bur gradually building introduction. We’re a long way back but I’m fairly sure that my shonky vision picks up Stuart Staples finishing off a fag as he strides to the front of the stage.

They kick off with a new track with stabbing guitars and Staples’ unique vocals sounding more characteristic than ever. “Is he going to sing like that all the way through?” asks Vanessa looking unimpressed.

The next few songs all seem new to me. It doesn’t matter, I am transfixed by the amazing noise that Tindersticks are making; augmenting the band, there is a string section and a couple of blokes making up a forceful brass/backing singing section.

Despite my age I have been checking stuff on myspace/facebook and as a result get a pang of recognition when The Flicker of A Little Girl strums its way across the stage, Vanessa reckons they sound a bit like Pulp and I can kind of see what she means.

Tindersticks: Not my photo, we were at the back

Staples’ voice is clearer and more mournful on the next few mellow tracks, the expanded orchestration really creating a fantastic atmosphere. Things get cranked up a bit for a stomping instrumental; all organs, maracas and blaring brass – the sound is just fucking amazing.

Time for the fans in the audience to whoop and clap in recognition as an expansive Dying Slowly ebbs its slightly menacing way off the stage. Now there’s more excitement as If You’re Looking For A Way Out fills the auditorium, the closing refrain of “stop pretending, stop pretending…” is absolutely beautiful, I don’t really want it to end, but it does – which is the whole point, I suppose.

Another new song that I have already heard is “one, two, three, fooouuurrr”-ed into juddering life. It’s the title track off the new album, The Hungry Saw. I love this, it reminds me a little of Marbles - plus it is about the Devil sawing through your chest to get to your heart, like all good songs should be.

Staples’ vocals at this point are like a particularly growly Elvis, but it still works, especially the bit about “a gram of speed and a one night stand”.

The next few tracks are all new stuff, notable for a really unhinged guitar solo, some fantastic backing vocals from the brass section and a couple of really rather soaring tracks where the whole band cuts loose a bit. There’s a mumble about how the end has been reached, but the enthusiastic applause means that they are bound to be back.

Strolling back out, the band are greeted by the die-hards yelling out requests. I consider repeatedly screaming “Jism!”, as I don’t think I’ll ever get the chance to justifiably shout that out at the Royal Festival Hall. Not had enough to drink, fortunately.

Anyway Tindersticks start the encore with the spoken-word epic tale of My Sister - what a fucking amazing track to choose. I could only be more impressed if they follow it up with their cover version of I’ve Been Loving You Too Long. Which they don’t.

Her is a manic, James Bond Theme in a demonic flamenco bar affair, angry and twanging. They return once more for the strangely quiet and sombre closer She’s Gone. I consider yelling “Jism” once more, realise Vanessa will almost certainly abandon me on the South Bank if I do and decide to act like a grown up.

Tinderlinks

Official Tindersticks Web Site

"You knew you were lost as soon as you saw her."

Film about the making of the new album

"You saw your life as a series of complicated dance steps."

Where I nicked the photo from

"Impossible to learn they had to come naturally."