The Veils @ Cabaret Voltaire
A few brave souls bop along like idiots. The rest stand deathly still, soaking it all up.
| 12 Dec 2006
No one notices when Adam Stafford, frontman of Y'All Is Fantasy Island takes to the stage in a silly hat. The room is empty when he starts strumming an acoustic guitar. All by himself tonight, the sound is half Joie / Dead Blonde Girlfriend, half Jawbone. Raw and guttural, his yells are just a bit too off-kilter, but judging from the ebb towards the stage, there's room aplenty for New York anti-folk juxtaposed with Detroit blues in Edinburgh.
New Rhodes follow up Adam's inroads into Americana with a typically English sound. Their first five songs sound like the Libertines, the next three sounds like Razorlight and they throw in something that sounds like The Smiths for good measure. Never mixing influences together, and never creating a sound of their own, they nonetheless engage the indie fringes that have begun to muster in anticipation of The Veils.
Finn Andrews makes his stage stance with all the awkward presence of Matt Bellamy. He whines and wails through gritty guitar dirges that recall the more raucous end of The Birthday Party. Built on old country rhythms, a few brave souls bop along like loons. The rest stand deathly still, soaking it all up. For the first five or six songs, it's an incredible racket; all dark, twisted and moody. For the next two or three, nothing really changes and as their set draws to a close, people begin to drift away. It's a pity, but The Veils just don't know when to stop playing and, eventually, only stop because they have to. [Neil Ferguson]
New Rhodes follow up Adam's inroads into Americana with a typically English sound. Their first five songs sound like the Libertines, the next three sounds like Razorlight and they throw in something that sounds like The Smiths for good measure. Never mixing influences together, and never creating a sound of their own, they nonetheless engage the indie fringes that have begun to muster in anticipation of The Veils.
Finn Andrews makes his stage stance with all the awkward presence of Matt Bellamy. He whines and wails through gritty guitar dirges that recall the more raucous end of The Birthday Party. Built on old country rhythms, a few brave souls bop along like loons. The rest stand deathly still, soaking it all up. For the first five or six songs, it's an incredible racket; all dark, twisted and moody. For the next two or three, nothing really changes and as their set draws to a close, people begin to drift away. It's a pity, but The Veils just don't know when to stop playing and, eventually, only stop because they have to. [Neil Ferguson]