Something in the way

INTERPOL / THE SECRET MACHINES, BIRMINGHAM ACADEMY, 16TH DECEMBER 2004

When The Secret Machines take to the Academy's main stage, we're happily gathered, chatting away with pints in hand. Unfortunately, we're not actually in the venue, but in a pub round the corner, and so only catch the last fifteen minutes of their bizarrely early support set. Precisely how many songs we witness in that time isn't clear, but their expansive and measured proggy sound is enough to convince me that new album Now Here Is Nowhere could be worth investigating.

When Interpol emerge into the lights to the delight of a roaring crowd, it's clear that time spent on the road has coaxed them out of their shells, and they come across as less sheepish and more showmanlike than before. Bassist Carlos D wears a black waistcoat over an arresting blood-red shirt. The most extrovert member of the band, guitarist Daniel Kessler, plays to the crowd, even going so far as to interrupt his intro to a song when struck by a 7" record, stopping to autograph it and chuck it back from whence it came. (That's as close as we get to what could be properly described as "antics".)

Even normally undynamic frontman Paul Banks goes to some effort, his tufty collar-length hair and the black trilby perched on his head making him look like Malcolm McDowell in 'A Clockwork Orange' - minus the eye make-up, of course. His between-song banter is as flat and platitudinous as ever, though.

'Next Exit' is first up, having triumphed over one of my personal favourites 'Untitled' in the battle of the opening tracks and shunting it from the setlist altogether. 'Obstacle #1' is next, and that's the pattern for the rest of the evening - great song after great song.

And yet something's not quite right.

It's partly the fact that the real sweet spot they hit mid-set - 'Not Even Jail', 'Hands Away', the ever-gorgeous 'NYC', 'Slow Hands' - seems rather short-lived, the impetus lost during a couple of the lesser tracks from towards the end of Antics.

It's partly the fact that, despite airing eight of the ten tracks from this year's LP, there's no room for the brilliant 'Take Me On A Cruise'.

It's partly the fact that there seems to be a strange reticence to put faith in the new songs at the business end of the show - 'PDA' ends the main set, followed by an encore of 'Leif Erikson' and 'Roland', and then another of 'Stella Was A Diver...'.

But, most of all, it's the fact that the sound is all wrong. Perhaps it's just where we're standing, but we get all Banks's vocals crystal clear (and that means all the the frequently excruciatingly bad lyrics) and almost none of the taut and inventive basslines that hold the songs together. Ultimately, that's probably what impedes my enjoyment most.

All the same, it's by no means a bad show, but ultimately one that makes me yearn for the songs' recorded counterparts - in that sense, the exact opposite of last week's Futureheads gig.

A very special band, then, who on the night just fail to do themselves or their music justice. That's my take on it, anyway - just try telling that to the hordes of beaming sweaty fresh-faced teenagers gleefully stomping on plastic pint glasses when the lights go up. Or my gig-going companions Kenny and Phill, for that matter...

Update: Kenny's posted a write-up of the evening on Parallax View.