Midlake - Portsmouth

[m_thomp]

One of my own, so no need to quote. Again for pictures from the gig without the need for passwords or 3D glasses then look on the link below:

 

Midlake - Portsmouth Wedgewood Rooms, 9/11/06 (that's 9th November)

 

Early November clatters the warning bell for the onset of winter, and nowhere in southern England will feel the pinch as maddeningly as Portsmouth, and more specifically, its shivering seaside neighbour Southsea: blood groups come in three popsicle flavours round these parts. And it is Southsea, the landlord of the Wedgewood Rooms, offering viewings of its heated des res venue for the climax of Bella Union's touring sideshow.

 

Bella Union, an independent label developed following the demise of its originators The Cocteau Twins, has assuredly built up a roster of diverse and ambitious artists: their fertile, yet disparate, breeding ground is underlined by the unexpected success for the likes of the Howling Bells, Laura Veirs and Explosions In The Sky. As a testament to their achievements the tour has been set up as part label showcase and part shared celebration, but, given the inclement conditions outside the venue and the emerging festive season, the event and artists performing seem more of a Marley divination: Midlake, Fionn Regan and Robert Gomez the embodiment of Bella Union's past, present and future.

 

Welcomed off the bitter streets and into the venue it's apparent that part of the label's, and this tour's, recent success can be attributed to a vibrant co-operative kinship between the acts: look carefully, and beyond the street teamers handing out label flyers, and you just might spot Midlake's keyboardist manning the merchandise stand. Other members of the Texan bearded wonders mill between bar and backstage, and, once settled, glance up at Robert Gomez performing to notice the rhythm section of the headliners putting in some overtime. Practice, for the former music academics, clearly makes perfect.

 

Robert Gomez cuts a confident, yet somewhat odd figure on stage; looking presentable and statuesque, he would have an air of authority in his brown woollen jacket, if the garment didn't look like it had been purloined from his father's wardrobe. Yet this shouldn't detract from Gomez' delicate and precarious anthems that unhurriedly leak from the speakers.

 

As the latest Bella Union signing, Gomez has, well, a patchy track record: as well as coffee table figurine Norah Jones being a former bandmate, his first album, Robert Gomez Trio, could be filed under the instrumental guitar section at your local jazz specialist. Yet the whole wasp-trapped-in-a-pint-glass dementia associated with any form of jazz seems to have deserted Gomez' current output. Instead, on stage, he assuredly straddles the twin worlds of Wilco - in an era when they were wrestled from the bar by Jim O'Rourke - and the cynical glint of The Dears. The crowd shows its appreciation, and expresses even more joy when the majority of these complexly orchestrated curios are announced by Gomez to feature on his forthcoming album. Expect a rise in pre-orders following this performance.

 

Promptly escaping the notice of everyone in the venue, Fionn Regan, dressed like a cross between Donovan and a Butlins rep, hurriedly sets up his gear following Gomez' departure. This exercise clearly shouldn't take too long: one man, an acoustic guitar, not the most complicated of tasks? However, tonight shifts the focus away from the solo troubadour that charmed the Green Man festival: tonight, Regan has backing. The usual rapid fingerpicking rhythms of his guitar are stamped and augmented further by Midlake's overworked drummer McKenzie Smith. The couple fire through a welcome set of numbers from Regan's debut The End of History, gristling with an intensity that replaces the slow-burning recorded version. Smith's stuttering march continuously punctuates a glorious The Underwood Typewriter to free Regan's vocals, allowing him chance to doff a titfer to Stevie Wonder rather than the usual open-throated croak of Ryan Adams. The contrast boldly underscores the singer's darker lyrical sentiments, particularly when he utters, "Step out of your dress, and I'll wear you like a hood".

 

Onstage Regan emanates a quiet intensity, perpetually shooting glances like a human lighthouse at every nook, fan and ignorant conversationalist in the venue. The reason becomes clear after thanking the audience for the rhapsodic applause to the triumphant Put A Penny In The Slot: Regan doesn't like a London crowd. Amidst ovations, he announces that Portsmouth has outshone the capital's appreciation, and, following a couple of audience members' admissions that they were present for the London gig, he brandishes them with the ultimate rhetorical question: "Well, why the fuck were you talking through my set?" Cue laughter.

 

The ferocity continues as Midlake bassist Paul Alexander and Robert Gomez' keyboardist join Regan and Smith onstage for a one-off bustling charge, their onstage vivacity and playful dynamics echoing the days of Dylan being mainlined by The Hawks. Closing number The End of History places a full stop on Regan's alluring tangle of love and desire, these intimate glimspes, and a shift to a startling musical immediacy, provoking a deserved adulation from all present.

 

With beer drunk, t-shirts sold and initial drumming duties fulfilled, Midlake leave their extra-cirricular activities and converge onstage to get on with the day job. Gear is checked quickly, although, apart from the odd visible knob and dial, quite what magical instruments are hidden from view inside their wooden flight cases is anyone's guess. Still, those knobs are turned, the backscreen projections started and an ambient wash - which fills all inbetween song downtime - tumbles from the speakers...

 

From the opener of In This Camp to its successor Balloon Maker the two sides to the Midlake coin are masterfully revealed in their performance. The latter is an indication of their old Bamnan and Slivercork guise: the great pop eccentrics, travelling similar terrain to the likes of Grandaddy and Sparklehorse, eschewing traditional instrumentaion in favour a rippling analogue keyboard bubblebath. Imagine The White Album, switched on with Moog. The current Midlake, more prevalent in the touring of The Trials of Van Occupanther, puts the astronomic desires and telescopes to bed, retreating instead to plot their sonic destiny in the intersection between Crosby, Stills & Nash and Fleetwood Mac on a Venn diagram of 70s music.

 

And it's the latter incarnation that hogs the spotlight, with Van Occupanther songs dispensed to the crowd's joyous acclaim. Roscoe chugs boldly along with metronomic precision; Van Occupanther's serene pastoral haze enchants and captivates, whilst the keyboard-triggered Oriental string section and the biting live snare of Young Bride enable Midlake to blossom with vitality. Lyrically, Midlake bury themselves even further through time than their musical lineage to outline a post-Colonial Amercian age of skills, aptitude, community, hope, transition and survival.

 

The cosy production of the album does tend to mask the commanding power of the band's harmonies; on record lead singer Tim Smith sounds like the sole contributor, so dominant is the 70s-inspired production that money could be betted on the vocals' double-tracked birth. Yet live, it's all hands to the pump. We Gathered In Spring is imbued with an impressive three, sometimes four, part harmony that not only reinforces the singer's vocals but also provides a more elaborate and nimble range. Smith himself conducts a forceful performance: the unsteady falsetto and protracted vowels bring to mind Rufus Wainwright and Thom Yorke, but his adopted pose - craned neck, squinted eyes and clenched teeth - is born not out of struggle but in the pursuit of perfection that frames the man's determination.

 

The set closes with a feverish and mighty Head Home. Here, not only do the harmonies launch into complex - and perplexing - tangents, but also they carefully intertwine with Eric Pulido's weightier and ominously tense guitar work. There's a determination in Pulido's toil to track, pursue and prompt the ascending vocals that bring to mind Lindsay Buckingham's shadowy guitarwork, echoing Fleetwood Mac at their most strident.

 

The triumphant exit doesn't make for an impatient encore wait as Smith and Pulido reappear speedily for a pleasantly restrained acoustic rendition of Chasing After Deer. The rest of the group are beckoned to play out the celebratory final number, It Covers The Hillsides, with guitar and Rick Wakeman-inspired primitive synth jostling for glory - clap your hands, ivory tinklers, the keyboard wins on a technical knockout.

 

And so - after an invitation from the band to the rapturous crowd to stop by the merchandise stall for a chat - the show ends. Those accepting would have to look for the presence of the band's chief street teamer, Jason Lee, (Earl J. Hickey from My Name Is Earl). Instant karma may get you, so future fans be mindful not to make his list - the band got struck off some time ago.