Glassjaw

For most of the many, many emo kids here tonight, it’s a pilgrimage. Due to frontman Daryl Palumbo’s chronic bouts of Crohn’s Disease that sadly but insistently flared up upon arrival on these shores, Glassjaw hardly got a tour started, let alone finished. This has led to the New Jersey outfit – now a four-piece – becoming a band that ascended to legendary status but only in a folklore told by hardcore kids.

It was just assumed by most that they would never see the group that influenced so many of their favourite bands, just in the same way that many others know they will never see Nirvana, so this show has a certain surreal feel to it. Many devoted gJ fans have stood silently at the back of dull Head Automatica shows just to catch a glimpse of the moonlighting Palumbo on vocals.

It’s the itch that’s been waiting five years to be scratched; it’s the niggling little paper cut that’s finally about to have a waterproof plaster spread over it. This gig can be nothing short of legendary.

So it’s sad, in a way, that the show is ‘just’ very, very good. It’s not amazing or mind-blowing or life-changing. Sure, the band’s influence is staggering – the number of careers owed to Glassjaw is unfathomable – but so many have come and imitated and even improved upon this once pioneering formula that some moments almost sound hackneyed. It wasn’t a cliché when Glassjaw originally did it.

Many diehards obviously have their blinkers on – their heroes can do absolutely no wrong – but the fact of the matter remains that it might just have been better if all this never happened. If they hadn’t played these shows – they play the Barfly a night earlier – it is unquestionable that they would have left their legacy both intact and totally untouchable.

Those who were in the intimate surroundings of the Barfly the night before Brixton might have an excuse to say that it was the finest show they’ve ever borne witness to, but those who stopped to have a look around will have noticed a few things: they will have seen the Barfly a hell of a lot more busy than what it actually was and, secondly, they might have expected more people to be ‘into it’. Sure, there is the excuse that many of the fans are seven years older and may be pushing 30, but if you were seeing one of your favourite bands of all time, wouldn’t you put in a little effort? Especially on a Friday night.

The exact same problems are apparent at Brixton: the promoters may well have had eyes bigger than their bellies on this occasion because there are still standing tickets on sale days before the gig and, once inside, where you watch the band is up to you. There are no security guards shunting those with seated balcony tickets upstairs. Oh no. Walk right in. The pit, however, is splendid.

The show is also spot on. Hearing Palumbo singing those songs in the flesh, you understand why this band has been elevated to rock royalty status; watching how the band intertwines after so long apart, you know they were meant to be together. The show is simple. There are no stage props or gimmicks. Nothing. It’s all about the band, and rightly so.

Regardless, they fail to put on the 10/10 show that everyone is craving. It’s good, yes – I’d even go as far as to say it was bloody great – but it could’ve been better and everyone knows it. It would leave a bitter taste of disappointment if everyone wasn’t so pleased that they would finally be able to say that they saw Glassjaw.