The Guillemots

It’s hard to know where to start with this gig, so let’s get to the crux straight away – The Guillemots proved to be a terrible disappointment.

We forgive frontman Fyfe Dangerfield his muted opening, sat alone on stage singing ‘Chosen One’. Although after an overlong wait for the equipment to be set up, it takes a while for the audience to realise he’s actually on the stage. We let him off because it’s all part of the plan, as once the Scottish folk song-influenced number is over the rest of the band arrive from the back of the room. A parade of horns, bells and brass winding through the audience and now, we think, it’ll get exciting.

But as they begin the second number it appears we could be low key throughout, as Dangerfield’s backside remains firmly glued to his chair. They also reveal the soon-to-be-annoying habit they have of prolonging an introduction to allow the singer to wail a bit over them jamming.

Given that the lead Guillemot once said “I don't think there's a greater art than writing a three-minute pop song that people can sing when they're drunk” it’s amazing that there’s so little structure to the songs, a complete lack of hooks and often tunes. It may be muso heaven; underneath the songs there are double bass, pipe effects, clarinets, saxophones and twiddly noise, but there is nothing to engage the audience at all. And to add insult to injury, the vocal is accurately described, by a nearby audience member, as “a bit David Gray”.

When we finally get something to get our teeth into, on ‘Who Left The Lights Off Baby’ (a song with some pace at last), it’s stopped dead in the middle for yet more keyboard nonsense mixed with drilling sounds, completely taking away the momentum.

But at last, along came ‘Trains to Brazil’, the reason most of the audience are there, and a truly great song (even though this too was begun with more solo warblings). Amateur psychologists in the audience unite in recognising Dangerfield’s admission that this must be his best tune, as he deigns to stand up for us, and actually use some energy.

It doesn’t last though, and the excitement level is soon tempered as the band leave the stage. We think Fyfe’s finished, and tellingly there are scant calls for ‘more’, but in fact he picks up a Casio style keyboard and sings away from the microphone so he can barely be heard whilst playing out a 4 note rhythm.

Ending with ‘Sao Paulo’, the now-returned band try to create a Mardi Gras feel to climax the song, with repetitive Soca-style percussion. But this is no ‘Fat Tuesday’. With all the epic ambitions of the band falling so flat, this is just one bloated Monday night.

FUTURE GIGS

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