Thanks to the sterling work of local promoters Uneven Blonde, the Bowery in Sheffield has recently played host to some magnificent, mostly free gigs (Tubelord being the best of the bunch so far), and on a blustery Sunday night, Minneapolis hype band Howler took to the stage for the second time in their short lifespan. With a sterling reputation across the Atlantic, anticipation snowballed in Sheffield: not so in myself, with the press release describing them as “this year’s Vaccines, this year’s Drums, this year’s Strokes” – hardly benchmarks of quality as far as I’ve ever been concerned. But still, it’s free right?
Main support act Man Made was Nile Marr – son of Johnny, no less. Sadly, he failed to really get to grips with the audience, and a lack of real crowd interaction resulted in a timid, awkward set. A shame, because musically he seemed excellent, but his efforts were mostly ignored, his set lit up only by his splendidly unnecessary gold sequinned jacket: a bigger mismatch between personality and clothing has never been found. Hopefully a full tour with Howler will cure him of those jitters.
Breezing onstage after some help from the now-decloaked Man Made, Howler set about their business. The comparison with the Strokes is an easy one to make: lead singer Jordan Gatesmith is so Casablancas-esque that were it not for the distinct lack of pretentious silence and sneering at the crowd from beneath a pair of sunglasses, you’d probably need a double-take. It’s easy to see the influence the New Yorkers had on Howler musically, too: Wailing (Making Out) has much more than a hint of The Modern Age about it, and Beach Sluts is laced with Strokes trademarks, but to boil them down to paint-by-numbers indie rock would be incredibly lazy critique. The band’s surf-rock roots are less apparent on record than in a live setting, where Howler sound less like the Strokes and more like if Best Coast were five drunk lads singing about girls, rather than one stoned girl singing about cats. Hazy guitars underpin every track; songs like America invoke the spirit of the Beach Boys. It's by no means unique, but it's a foot-tappingly infectious fusion. Best of all, these characteristics feel almost completely tongue-in-cheek when you look to the right of the stage and realise they’re playing hazy LA surf rock in front of the Bowery's 1920s patterned wallpaper and an electric fireplace; it feels as though there’s five American kids partying in your Nan’s front room, which is a brilliant (if not batshit crazy surreal) vibe to have at a free gig, an environment notorious for its oft-sterile atmosphere.
The band rattle through an exuberant set, peppered with hilariously awkward interludes: the dedication of pensioner's favourite Beach Sluts to Gatesmith’s grandfather on his '70th or something' birthday; the guitarist’s heartfelt ode to the barman who ‘made sprite!’ out of lemonade and tonic water; and a touch of seemingly-friendly Wales/England banter which rapidly turned into a rape joke. It’s difficult to not be won over by them, and with the set ending on Back Of Your Neck – a track genetically modified to soundtrack the BBC’s festival coverage this summer – their infectious energy seems to have swelled into the now-packed room: scores of people have filed up the stairs, crouching to catch a glimpse of what all the fuss is about, and even the almighty Johnny Marr nods along, his untarnishable indie-cool negated only by his mid-gig tweeting. Playing to a room packed with initially disinterested people, most of whom were only there because it was either that or cringing through an hour of Top Gear, is a daunting task, but Howler didn’t shy away – and they’ll need those surprisingly broad shoulders when the BBC ensure they soundtrack your summer, whether you like it or not. Remember how much you liked that Two Door Cinema Club song?
Make sure you catch Howler live before you’ve heard Back Of Your Neck so many times you want to rip your ears off – because mark my words, it’s going to happen. Say hello to your band of the summer, and your dad's new favourite advert song to whistle along to (however wrongly he does it).
No comments:
Post a Comment