Kids in Glass Houses, Attack! Attack!, Straight Lines.

Kids in Glass Houses, Attack! Attack!, Straight Lines

Sitting down to write this review I wasn’t sure just how to start it. There were ideas, sure, but they wouldn’t translate onto the page. I had writer’s block. Hard. Then I glanced down at my notes and saw one word drunkenly scrawled across the top of my pad, underlined four times: “NOISE”.

Had I the foresight to have vomited “sweat”, “angst”, and “androgyny” across my pad, I would have been set. Unfortunately, this is where my conceit ends, and I have to again descend into proper writing.

As well all know; the best shows in the world are the ones where you’re in the minority of legal drinkers. Hazily adrift in a sea of sobriety and headbands; that is when you can appreciate the glory of live music. I was excited: the line-up was as good as I could ask for. Up first: Straight Lines, a hard-hitting noisefactory from South Wales.

Possible the most aesthetically incongruous group I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing; the lead singer looked as though he should tied to his mother’s apron, whilst the lead guitarist’s red shirt reminded me alarmingly of the Big Bad Wolf. Thankfully, the music was significantly better than the look.

Admittedly a bit androgynous, a little samey, and a little clunky, it was nonetheless good fun. Noisy, sweaty, shouty, and some truly inspired refrains. A particular favourite was the completely unexpected bridge lifted verbatim from Buddy Holly (Weezer); set against the vocals which you could find in any Futureheads song (seriously). Lacking in stage presence, yes, but tighter than the 40 year old virgin.

From the 40-year old virgin to Attack! Attack!, the local jailbait: loose, and oh so disappointing at the climax. Whereas “noise” was a compliment to Straight Lines, you expect a lot more from a band on their second album. You expect clean cut edges, and refined song-lists. Not so here; all the run was lifted from the crushingly disappointing second album. Fan favourite You and Me was the personal highlight, and that was just because they started mashing their instruments. Don’t get me wrong: it was good, it just wasn’t Attack! Attack!. It was unstructured shouting; no epiphany moments of tinkling synth. Heavier than their studio work, but shitter, too.

Salvation came crashing down as inebriation grabbed hold, however, in the shape of Kids in Glass Houses; more ear-rapists from South Wales. Like being punched in the head over and over, it was just how it was meant to be: unreal stage presence from the Welsh Tom Chaplin look-a-like; heady nonconformism and a smattering of humour. They certainly gave me what I want.

Alas, this is where my notes tail off to unintelligible scribbles, and I remember why: I’d thrown myself into the pit, I was brawling with Jefree Star clones half my age.

Start hard. Fade out. Get kicked. Vomit. Perfect.