The Like
Audio, Brighton
Article written by
Alan M - Sep 13, 2010
|
|
|
The Like
|
What’s not to like? My penchant for femme–centric music dictated that as soon as this gig was announced, as quick as a flash, I stumped up my eight quid for a ticket. From Blondie to Those Dancing Days, The Ronettes to The Marvellettes, Dusty to Bardot (the French bird, not the Eurovision bufoons of yesteryear), The Supremes to The Pipettes: sonically, I’ve embraced them all. It’s an adoration that’s been healthy and rewarding. These artists have provided the soundtrack to all of the greatest moments in my life. I’d be lost without them.
Saying that, things haven’t always worked out. Over the years, I’ve had crushes that have degenerated into pathetic infatuations. I’m not proud of stalking the Bangles around north London venues in the 80’s, and pestering a friend to be allowed backstage at a Brighton nightclub to meet Wendy James. Persevering with Echobelly (when I say Echobelly, of course I mean Sonya) way beyond the call of duty right up to the third album, and my personal nadir, a preposterous flirtation with L7. Don’t ask.
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. I can see you whispering behind my back, calling me a wrong ‘un. But hey, I’m not apologising. There’s nothing wrong with fancying the spangly pants off a singer. When Elvis thrust those hips towards his frenzied fans at Tupelo, the die was cast. From that day forth, sex and rock and roll would go hand in clammy hand.
The Like are four young women from Los Angeles, California. They are a conspiracy theorists wet dream. In 2006, five years after they formed, they released their first album “Are You Thinking What I’m Thinking”. With the notable exception of the glorious opening track “June Gloom”, it’s the archetypal five out of ten LP. It’s just, you know, alright. This month, their second album “Release Me” hits the shops. So where’s the conspiracy?
Well, the thing is, The Like have friends in high places. The first album was recorded on Geffen, where singer Elizabeth Z Berg’s old man worked, plus we are now told a “chance encounter” with Mark Ronson led to his employment on the new record. We’ll never know if that “chance encounter” was actually Mr Berg picking up the phone to Ronson and asking for a favour. What we can be certain of, is having worked with the midas producer and The Dap-Kings (the finest purveyors of retro-funk/soul in the world), this album will have an instantly recognisable style. It ought to sound bloody brilliant. The Shangri-Las with guitars would be nice.
Tonight’s gig should go a long way to revealing whether The Like are 4 Real or just a bunch of rich Daddy’s girls from LA - or maybe both.
It was a surreal start to the evening. Having a drink in the pub before the gig, I found out my mate, who was planning to join us all, had been rushed to hospital in an ambulance, with a suspected stroke. He’s fine now – thanks for asking. There was even foolish talk he’d be joining us later, such was the anticipation levels of seeing this band. But once the adrenaline wore off, common sense prevailed, and he decided to stay at home. He’d had a very lucky escape, in more ways than one.
And if that wasn’t shocking enough – there was more to come. Stood right next to us at the bar at Audio, was none other than legendary blues guitarist Gary Moore. I have absolutely no idea why he was there, but it was definitely Gary Moore, honest. You couldn’t mistake that mashed up fizog for anyone else.
Audio was barely a third full, which in real money means about 50 punters. The venue had somewhat optimistically installed crash barriers at the front of the stage. As the support band were finishing their set, I noticed The Like were all standing in the corner of the room, dutifully manning their merchandising stall. These girls were patently not ‘living the dream’. Witnessing the band pitifully trying to flog t-shirts to disinterested punters (when they could so easily be back home in far more glamorous surroundings) made me think we should cut these girls some slack. Sure, becoming a successful band will not be their dream ticket to escape from an impoverished life, but that’s not their fault. So let’s be fair-minded, and finally put to bed the suggestions that this ‘being in a band’ lark, for them, is just an indulgent hobby. It certainly didn’t look a bundle of laughs from where I was standing.
The Like strut onto the stage and there’s an audible intake of breath. Singer Elizabeth Z Berg, bassist Laena Geronimo and organist Annie Monroe have come dressed like the backing singers from Robert Palmer’s ‘Addicted To Love’ video. But far sexier. Maybe those crash barriers at the front of the stage weren’t such a bad idea after all? Juxtaposed with this eye-watering triumvirate, drummer Tennesse Thomas has plumped for a rather demure white bridal dress. She looked a dead ringer for Mary Ingalls from ‘Little House On The Prarie’.
The first song is so-so. However, second song “He’s Not A Boy” is a lot more upbeat and catchy, and briefly the band threaten to find some sort of rhythm. But the track is still a poor imitation compared to the recorded version. And that, ladies and gents, was the evening’s high point. The next couple of songs are flat and uninspiring. One song sounds like Tracey Ullman. That’s never a good sign. Something’s not quite right here. We are all a bit perplexed. Now at this juncture, you’d normally expect to see the band making accusatory hand gestures towards the engineer to deflect the aural blame. This doesn’t happen. (I saw The Pipettes at the very same venue a few months earlier and they sounded fantastic). So the problems cannot be attributed to the venue acoustics. What we are hearing is a true representation of how The Like sound live. Oh dear.
This awkwardness continues for another five or six songs. I’m genuinely surprised at quite how ordinary they are. I was expecting to be flirted with tonight, not baffled. Some people have already voted with their feet. It doesn’t help that the band are so aloof, and have no intention of trying to build a rapport with their audience. Normally I’d be the first to applaud an American band for not trotting out the usual banalities: “Hi Brighton, geez you guys are awesome” claptrap, but tonight Z Berg has said nothing. But she should, she really should, because at least then we could feel some empathy. Show them a bit of support.
It’s all very embarrassing. Despite their perfect fixed Colgate smiles, The Like must know this is hopeless, and racing through their thankfully short set, suggests that it’s not just the crowd that want to go home. During one song they belatedly try and inject a bit of sauciness to spice up the proceedings, when singer and bassist turn their backs on each other and their backsides collide and gyrate together. It’s cringe worthy. It’s even less convincing than two straight females in a lesbian porn flick (apparently).
And then finally, Z Berg speaks. In a rather hopeful plea, she announces we can buy the latest single from the merchandising stall. Nobody was killed in the stampede. And then they play “In The End” the final song of the evening. Mercifully, there’s no encore. They owed us that much.
I’ve no idea if that was a typical Like live performance. For their sakes I hope not. In their defence, they’d only just resumed the UK tour following a family emergency in LA. So perhaps their hearts and minds were elsewhere tonight?
And to be honest, it wasn’t that awful. If they’d all been dressed like the cast of Little House On The Prairie it wouldn’t have felt quite so bad. But when you make a decision to promote yourselves on how you look, it naturally draws attention and raises expectations. You are making a statement. Look at us we’re great. We are worth taking notice of. And we did. But you need to be any good. Standing on that Brighton stage last night, looking that cool, that sassy, and that cocksure, only served to accentuate just how soulless and under whelming the music was.
By the way the album sounds much better. Shame the old man couldn’t afford to fly Ronson and The Dap-Kings over for the live performances.
I went home and played ‘Parisienne Walkways’ – a fitting way to end a surreal night.
|
|
|
|
|
- RSS Feed 
Weird Dreams - Choreography (album)