James London ULU

AS IMPORTANT AS BREATHING!

JAMES 
London ULU

LET ME try and explain. James are hypnotic, grown-up, innocent, clear, sad, original and real. They are also, quite simply, brilliant.

Their set started with the merest patter - ‘Sea Song’ - voice and drums, bass and guitar, sketching the outline of their vision. Imagine, if you will, Bo Diddley meets The Dubliners meets Joy Division. James are Rock And Roll in the best possible sense, that is, they are enjoyable, sexy and as important as breathing. In addition there is a fine folkiness in their sound; not in the surface sense of the Byrds Of Rhymney and roi-de-doody-fiddle-do-day, but in the very texture of their music. There is the Martin Carthyesque edge to the singer’s voice and the fact that none of the instrumentalists in the band ever lean on the innumerable cliche/crutches that Rock has ever spawned to hide lack of talent.

James are Mancunians; their songs emphasise repetition and beatiness (to do with the all-pervasive influence of the somewhat overrated Joy Division, I suppose). Here, if anywhere, lies James’ weakness. Amidst all the albeit delicate, foreward-trundling motion, it would be a fine thing to hear some of the staggering twists and turns that a more highly wrought song can provide (see Go-Betweens and Prefab Sprout).

At the core of James’ music is the drums, the earth out of which the rest of the music grows. Gavin Whelan plays the drums rather than hits them. No nasty, thoughtless, snare-hi-hat Rhythm Box impersonations here. Here is a man who would obviously rather listen to Art Blakey than Pete de Freitas. Without ostentation he will play whole songs with his hands. Think of the drumming on ‘Maybe Baby’ crossed with that on ‘I Love You Big Dummy’ and you might get some idea.

Tim Booth sings with a quiet conviction that becomes increasingly volcanic as he periodically throws out shouts and extremity like a vocal war dance. By showing glimpses of this full-tilt intensity he gives the rest of the performance a hair-trigger tension, thus focusing the listeners mind on what he has to say. Note should also be made of his quite extraordinary spastic-puppet-boy dance which, like his vocal intensity, he fires off in short machine-gun bursts. Imagine an electrified coat-hanger inserted inside Timothy’s T-shirt; suspend him from the ceiling, plug him in and off he goes like an angry eel. Meanwhile guitar and bass mesh round voice and drums, playing in a strange and perfect unity, together managing to reinvent the whole cast of pop. Skinny and ascetic in appearance, James give off the patient, certain and slightly puzzled air of the truly great.

With that kind of critical hyperbole shovelled over every new set of Emperor’s Clothes that comes along, such recommendations come pretty cheap these days. But don’t believe me, go and see for yourself. I don’t think James will let you down.

- Peter Louie