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Review: The Darkness, Colston Hall
Nashville’s Blackfoot Gypsies are, one suspects, neither Blackfoot nor gypsies. Nor do they actually live in 1966. But, in keeping with the tone of the evening, they are enormous fun. Having made off with Chris Robinson’s Shake Your Money Maker-era wardrobe, peace sign-flashing frontman Matthew Paige strikes every rock pose in the Bumper Book of Rock Poses, seemingly heedless of the fact that it is impossible to wear a hat and headbang simultaneously.
With just 30 minutes to impress the Darkness audience, they get down to business, cramming as many songs as possible into their allotted slot. It’s fairly unsophisticated, garagey, lo-fi stuff – Tyler Bryant & the Shakedown they ain’t – but is distinguished by the harmonica playing of splendidly named Ollie Dogg.
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By the end of their set, they’ve progressed to 1969, dipping a toe into boogie territory with the kind of stuff you might have expected to hear from Canned Heat or Ten Years After at Woodstock.
It’s been a “trip”, declares Matthew, as the Gypsies troop off to pack those stage clothes into their giant dressing-up box and head home after a long tour with Lowestoft’s finest. They’re well worth checking out if The Man permits them to return.
To those of us who grew up in an era when there was just metal and everything else, and it was indeed all just fields round here, the notion that one is not permitted to enjoy both The Darkness and the blackest of black metal or the proggiest of prog-metal is a peculiar one. So while the sniffy snobs and trolls are making up their preposterous rules, we’ll just follow Justin Hawkins’ exhortation to have a good time.
Arriving on stage to Abba’s, er, Arrival, The Darkness are a sight to behold. Justin’s chosen a stripy green catsuit for the occasion, while his brother Dan sports both his traditional Thin Lizzy T-shirt and a Thin Lizzy jacket (because one can never wear too many items of Thin Lizzy-branded apparel).
Bassist Frankie Poullain has finally managed to locate the most outlandish pimp suit in existence. Even chip-off-the-old-block drummer Rufus Tiger Taylor seems to have been persuaded join in, modelling an unlikely blouse and shorts combo. Wonder if he knows his dad played one of his first major gigs at this very venue, when Queen supported Mott the Hoople on November 29, 1973.
After a brief microphone malfunction, the show gets into gear with the NWOBHM-esque Open Fire, followed by Love Is Only a Feeling (actually a rather lovely song, as the Lounge Kittens’ stripped-down version demonstrates) and the tabloid-courting Southern Trains.
Normally at these shows, photographers are permitted to shoot only the first three songs, but Justin summons B24/7 snapper Mike Evans and his colleagues back to the pit for one more song before they “fuck off”. The reason, he explains, is that that he’s going to temporarily divest himself of his guitar for some “prancing” during Black Shuck, leaving the primal riffage to Dan while he gives that dog-bothering falsetto a workout, and wishes this to be captured for posterity. He does not disappoint on any count.
What appears to be a plus-sized bra is thrown on stage during All the Pretty Girls, and, naturally, Justin can’t resist the temptation to strap it on, backwards, over his catsuit. He introduces Givin’ Up as boasting Dan’s favourite riff. Really? You’d have thought he might prefer the crushing one that introduces the next song, Barbarian – a splendid East Anglian riposte to Viking metal.
Actually, it’s becoming increasingly clear that Dan is the Malcolm Young of The Darkness, by which I mean not that he is prematurely deceased but that he is the band’s musical engine room, loitering at the back by his Marshall stack, grinding out riffs and keeping the silliness in check.
Ah, yes: silliness. By the time they get to Get Your Hands Off My Woman, Justin is doing a headstand on the drum riser and going for a ‘swim’ in the audience. They’re still leaning perhaps rather too heavily on Permission To Land, with only a handful of songs from the current Pinewood Smile and a miserly selection from its three predecessors.
But there’s an infectious air of end-of-tour jollity about the proceedings that infuses the encore, kicking off with the agreeably saucy Japanese Prisoner of Love. The ripe seasonal fromage of Christmas Time (Don’t Let the Bells End) follows, prompting an arm-waving singalong. The Blackfoot Gypsies are summoned back to the stage for the inevitable I Believe in a Thing Called Love, without any thought having been given as to what instruments they’re going to play. A guitar is hastily produced, which partly solves the problem. Then a member of the audience helpfully produces a cowbell, which they had presumably secreted about their person all evening for just such an eventuality. It’s that kind of night.
All photos by Mike Evans
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