Lovely locks

(dude and his fist)


Courtesy of the Vista...also Christine Osborn (whoever that is) talked about profs



I’m never going to the Casbah on a Saturday night again. Last weekend, I journeyed to that endearingly dirty little venue near the airport to catch a sold out set from Brit indie rock quartet Razorlight.

The band is touring in support of their garden variety 2006 release—which pales in comparison to sleaze-rock debut “Up All Night.” As I walked into the venue, I noticed that the band had brought two tour buses. To the Casbah. I suppose to each his own, or in this case, to each half a bus. They must be bigger in England. Rock and roll excess aside, Razorlight failed to impress anyone under the age of twenty-seven, but for those over that magically arbitrary age, this generic rock proved more epic than a Deep Blue Something show in 1994.

Most of the time I get annoyed by obnoxious kids at all-ages shows or fashionistas at the über-indie shows, but as of Saturday, this musical curmudgeon has a new group to shout about. Settling into the back just before the set, I wondered what lead singer Johnny Borrell would climb on. After his scaffold scaling at Coachella in 2005, the padded walls lining the stage seemed limiting for death-defying acrobatics.

Then, the music started, and they were in front of me. That couple. Around age thirty, this pair came complete with a nearly blacked-out, spastic, rump-shaking Carrie Bradshaw look-alike and a balding man in designer jeans who could not help but use her booty as a drum throughout the set. Oh, and they brought their friends: two fist-pumping dudes who spilled as much beer as they drank. I guess a late Saturday night is about all they're allowed in that working world I’ve heard so much about.

Usually, a concert-rusty crowd like this wouldn’t ruin an entire show for me. But normally, the music is powerful enough to hold my attention and keep me from smacking these imbeciles. The only word to describe Razorlight’s performance is generic. Minus a few intriguing drum solos, the band could have easily played at the Battle of the Bands on Friday—eager young lads looking for a big break.

So, I was left watching this group of wasted young professionals dance and cling to any scrap of youth they have left. You’d think they could have picked a better soundtrack though. The rest of the crowd was split between the just-legal quiet ones and rowdy stereotypical bros dancing like they got lost on their way to Safari in TJ. My decision? Bail after forty minutes or so.

The saving grace of the night was the opening set by Mohair, a SXSW-bound, and Watford, UK native piano pop group. Lead singer Tom Billington sports an auburn set of curly locks that would put Annie to shame, and the rest of the band brought British sexy back with ascots, vests, and entirely too tight button-downs. Their bouncy stage presence and three-part harmonies had the listless wandering in to see what all the fuss was about. Billington’s staunch classic solos—complete with his jaw-dropped open and a few bangs of his white-man fro—plus Alex Richards’s vamping keys combined to dance around the audience pied piper style. I’m just glad I got there early and left early.


(Mohair)