Jeremy Warmsley

The crowd’s thinned. Plan B doesn’t seem too concerned: this sort of audience – one comprised of narrow-eared indie-scenester sorts in for the preceding jolly-rockin’ act with all the substance of an empty Twix wrapper – isn’t one he’s looking to conquer, and there’s a tangible antagonistic tone in his voice when he calls the remaining attendees “fucking cunts” within a minute of taking the stage. Granted, said outburst is an opening remark in one of his many parental-advisory-stickered raps, but there’s a noticeable division between the faces on stage and those off it – there’s no barrier, no actual physical distance, but the parties’ musical roots could well have been laid on entirely separate continents.

Ben Drew – to give the London-born-and-bred rapper his real name – strums an acoustic (don't go mistaking this as folk, or indie, mind) and spits acerbic lines of venomous poetry, cusses as carefree-ly as Count von Count runs down from ten to one on Sesame Street, and stares intently, intensely, through almost-closed eyes, pupils big and brimming with intelligence. His occasionally endearingly modest, matter-of-fact attitude to his own abilities and tastes – he highlights a smattering of shortcomings, on and off the record, throughout the evening’s slick set – is, sadly, counteracted somewhat by the already insinuated potty-mouth that motors its way through material that, if blessed by a thesaurus, would be riding high in the charts. Drew leaves the Skinners and Allens of this world floundering so far as a natural lyrical flow goes – his lips twitch swift and his tongue lashes like lightning, insights and observations coming mercury quick – but the persistent, and sometimes unnecessary, obscenities leave the in-the-balance attendees unimpressed. £9.99 lost there, here, going up the stairs to get wasted on indigestible junk food…

Yes, the language is intended to reinforce the often violent and visceral subject matters, but songs like ‘Missin’ Links’ and ‘Who Needs Actions When You Got Words’ – the latter the title track from Plan B’s debut album – would be perfect mainstream material, ripe for FM consumption without some bland Streets-style ballad playing burly quarterback to aid their cause, if stripped of the excess swearing. ‘Missin’ Links’ comes on like Thom Yorke twiddling studio controls at a re-recording of ‘Gin N’ Juice’: if that’s not the primordial ooze of a Guaranteed Hit, then I’m quite obviously unable to determine between accessible and impenetrable.

‘Kids’ is one of a handful of songs concerned not only with Drew’s childhood neighbourhood – Forest Gate, since you never enquired – but also with issues of (inter)national relevance, in this instance underage sex, rape and teenage pregnancy. Often what he has to say is engrossing, his stories vivid and believable, but the flood of c-words and f-words simply raise that wall between performer and punter that little higher. It’s as if he’ll do whatever he can to remain in the shadows, to lurk in the backstreets of the ghetto he wasn’t raised in and cast barbed criticism the way of those that capitalise upon their commercial sound. As a couple of crowd members dance to ‘No Good’, which (ironically?) lifts its killer hook from The Prodigy’s (smash-hit) song of the same name, it strikes home that Plan B possesses a bucket-load of potential but perhaps lacks the business sensibilities to fulfil it. Backed by a drummer, bassist and DJ, this performance could quite conceivably fill the cavernous beer-branded Academies of the land as easily as it does a basement club. But something’s holding it back.

The language – one obstacle requiring overcoming in the quest for greater coverage (deserved) and success (likewise) – is neatly explained away in ‘Sick 2 Def’, but Plan B could benefit from a slight readjustment of attitude. A little love for those before him – those that have paid their money regardless of who their main draw was – and Drew would have complete strangers eating from the palms of his bloody hands. By maintaining a demeanour that’s colder than the shoulder of the most heartless gangster supposedly loitering on his home borough’s street corners, Plan B appears unwelcoming and inhospitable. There are tried-and-tested methods of making friends and influencing people; calling your crowd “fucking cunts”, albeit as part of a performance, isn’t an entirely successful alternative approach.

Even if your crowd isn't your crowd.