Hearts of (black) gold

A word of warning: if you ever go to the Birmingham Academy (or, I assume, any other Academy venue) for a gig, be prepared to shell out nearly three quid for a pint of wanky lager.

Another word of warning: judging by the craggy faces of all the leather-jacket-clad forty-something Mary Chain fans assembled in the venue tonight, prolonged exposure to feedback certainly ain’t good for you. In ten years, then, I’ll probably be looking like the fucking Elephant Man.

First up, in the absence of Boxer Rebellion, are M.A.S.S., who somehow manage to make the most sexless rock ‘n’ roll imaginable. They sound like they formed, sat down in some Camden boozer, pored over a few issues of NME and came up with a clutch of songs cynically aimed at hitching a ride on every available bandwagon going. ‘Testify’ is the Von Bondies done spectacularly badly, and ‘Revolution’ is such a pathetically dispassionate din that you’d think it was about the chain of vodka bars and not the form of popular political uprising. Even the lead singer’s attempt at a sneer (in amongst her repertoire of feeble Karen O impressions) is pathetic, suggesting only that she’s swallowed a sachet of vinegar. Perhaps she’s just mirroring my own facial expression. M.A.S.S.: never darken my eardrums again.

By way of contrast, it’s not hard to see why Razorlight have been arousing countless erections amongst record label suits over the past year. I might have been determined not to be swayed by the hype, but the hype becomes irrelevant when Johnny Borrell and his Scandinavian rent boys take to the stage and strike up the first notes of new single ‘Rip It Up’. It’s also not hard to see the Libertines connection – Razorlight might be sharper and more polished than the gloriously shambolic rabble-rousers, but there’s the same Strokes-on-Thames feel, and the same lyrical intelligence and flair on show here. It’s also clear that, in the case of Doherty, Barat and Borrell, two’s perfect company whereas three would understandably have been a crowd.

But Razorlight aren’t what all those craggy-faced leather-jacket-clad forty-something Mary Chain fans are there for. Oh no sirree. That would be The Raveonettes. And fuck me if they aren’t brilliant. And satisfyingly loud.

In terms of sex, the difference between the headliners and M.A.S.S. is enormous – songs like ‘Little Animal’ are positively dripping with pheromones, while Sharin Foo’s eyelinered eyes, sultry smile and cooing vocals become rather, ahem, distracting, amidst even the most piercing of the static storms they conjure up onstage. They play ‘That Great Love Sound’, ‘Noisy Summer’ and ‘The Love Gang’ in succession, impressing on anyone present who’s not already aware of the fact that this year’s Chain Gang Of Love LP is, above everything else, a stunning pop record, as black as night and yet miraculously and heart-warmingly upbeat with it. Eventually, after the queasy and bruised metronome of ‘Love Can Destroy Everything’, dedicated to Johnny Cash, the warped surf guitar genius of ‘Untamed Girls’ and a fabulous mauling of Buddy Holly’s ‘C’mon Everybody’, old favourites ‘Attack Of The Ghost Riders’ and ‘Beat City’ round the evening off in a joyous celebration of pure noise.

The biggest compliment I can pay them is that they make me want to go out, buy some gut-rotting headfuck white cider, drink it in the bushes, enjoy a drunken snog and then go home to spew all over the carpet. As it is, I step back into the rain with ears and head buzzing, glowingly happy.

As PJ Harvey sang, this is love.