Editors

Oh the weight of expectation. Never has there been a bigger burden than in the emperor's new clothes' fitting room. Not so much for the titled masters of ceremony, but certainly this evening may have come a tad too early for both of the ladies in waiting.

Both Jones Of Colorado and Burningman make an admirable attempt at laying the foundations as it were, as the former's Galaxie 500 meets The Dirty Three post-folk (rather than anti-folk) feels quite wholesome and, with a little refinement, maybe worthy of deification in the not too distant future. Similarly, Burningman are a credit to their hometown, their cutesy epilogues coming across like David Gedge after a few shandies, proving interesting and enlightening at times, if occasionally outstaying their welcome, thanks to the odd spate of unnecessary noodling here and there. Both are clearly manoeuvring along the right tracks. Neither, however, are anywhere near the finished article yet.

Not that the Editors have reached the pinnacle of their game either, which is a frightening prospect in itself considering the intrinsic brutality of their performance. In frontman Tom Smith, they have the perfect advertisement for schizophrenics everywhere, his mannerisms changing from the superfluous gaze of a forced smile to the crazed contortions of a deranged apostle of homicide. Certainly the change in character from the last time Editors played in Nottingham is magnanimous. While there was never any denying that they had the tunes - and boy, do they have TUNES, big enough to conquer two-tiered football stadiums - in a previous life their demeanour may have seemed almost apologetic, maybe almost too polite to accept their own errant greatness, perhaps? Aside from Smith though, the swooning expressions of guitarist Chris Urbanowicz suggest he's already booked his apartment in some outer stellar region far beyond the realms of the human eye, while bassist Russell Leetch is "the minder", the big bloke at the back who doesn't say much but if you dare...no I'll rephrase that...were you ever stupid enough to argue with him well, let's just say "face the consequences..."

All four band members are resplendent from head-to-toe in black, more as a gesture maybe to the demise of Urbanowicz's football team of choice than as a sign of any funereal presence in their music, since despite what you may have been told, the Editors music is more celebratory than depressive. As Smith lets out an impassive "If no one can help you then how can I?" during the opening salvo of 'Someone Says' its almost as if he's offering himself as a free counselling service for the terminally helpless and 'can't be bothereds' of this world. Likewise the reversed chimes of 'Blood' and 'Munich' see grown men crying all around me. "Even the Bunnymen weren't this intense in their heyday" wails the bloke behind me, part in astonishment, the rest in awe.

Indeed, the onstage chemistry between Smith and Urbanowicz is what makes the Editors' live set so beguiling, the two creating an almost telepathic resonance whilst seemingly competing with each other's stage space during the freewheeling 'All Sparks'. By the end of the set Smith has wrapped his guitar around the top of the stagelights, Leetch's bass has engaged in a war with both his own speaker stack and the curtains surrounding the front of the stage and Urbanowicz pirouettes back and forth clasping his guitar in a bow like position like some modern day Little John trekking through Sherwood Forest. And me? I've just spent the last 24 hours trying to get my breath back. Nurse, pass me the respirator...

Photographs courtesy of Ian Hales