CMJ 09 - Day Three

I’ve learnt two things this week. 1) I have less stamina than I thought, and 2) the scheduled show-times mean nothing, which throws all plans out the window pretty much from the get-go. Changeover times are ridiculous and if we lived in Elizabethan times, cabbages would be thrown on-stage to a chorus of jeers. I made a vow to see The xx tonight and even though they didn’t take to the stage until 2am, they were so, so worth it. But more about them later, as I’d like to end on a positive note.

First band of Clash’s unseasonably warm evening were Suckers. The New York hype machine is in overdrive about these Brooklynites and… well… I’m not entirely sure why. Suckers don’t suck by any means, but they did little more than inspire the light foot-tap seen in offices of A&R men the world over, who have absolutely no intention of signing whatever they’re politely feigning interest in.

What I’ve deduced from post-Suckers discussions on the roof of The Delancey is that Americans love them, but Brits really don’t get it. Suckers’ sounds are certainly interesting and the four-piece keep up with the current trend of banging extra percussion instruments just for the hell of it, but the songs don’t seem to go anywhere good. Anywhere at all, actually. Plus the over-affected singer looks and (over) performs like a slightly unhinged, drunk Australian. An acquired taste which I, along with my fellow limeys, have no intention of acquiring.

And now for the good stuff. Boy, was I ready to give my best ‘what’s all the bleedin’ fuss about?’ sneer tonight. I’d limbered up my shoulders for a shrug of epic proportions, practiced rolling my eyes in the mirror and drafted hate mail to the lead singer for keeping me up way past my bedtime. But, blimey… The xx had me from the very first track and by the end of ‘Crystalised’, I was planning an ‘X’ tattoo in the middle of my forehead. The lo-fi beats and intense, sultry vocals drip off the stage like dry ice, travel across the floor and swirl at your feet, before making their way to the pit of your stomach where they reverberate and smoulder. It’s sex music, in a really good way.

Other Day Two highlights I missed, because I only have one pair of ears:

Hockey
Bobby Brown (I know! If I hear he played the hits, I will be devastated)
Your Nature
Goldhawks
Das Racist

Words and Photos by Rachael Wright