Prego

In the middle of the stage is a battered old drum-kit placed sideways. There are no mic stands or effects pedals to worry about, just a flipped-over table, some amplifiers, two guitars and a bass. And, of course, the four young men who make up Limn, who will over the course of their 25-minute set scamper from one instrument to the next, oftentimes two of them facing each other over the drum kit, eye contact held firmly and nary an error in their combination.

Tonally resembling a looser, punch-drunk Pinback and evidently well-practised in the art of interlocking guitar arpeggios, their tunes twist and teeter from one segment to the next, inventive time signatures and fast-paced fretwork the order of the day. It’s undoubtedly impressive stuff though never truly transcendent – even when two of the band are rattling at the drums it’s never quite enough to push them onto the next level, however closing tune ‘’Sup Blood’ (indeed) suggests that Limn are easily capable of getting there. The drums, finally, are given hell, the guitars reel and canter into spiky new territory, and even that upside-down table is given a bash at. Wonderful.

Supping on a ludicrously overpriced can of Red Stripe and taking in the expanding crowd, this reviewer is reflecting on the merits of a relatively unfussy guitar sound – exemplified by the band previous – when he catches sight of the unfeasible proliferation of effects units now gracing the stage. Prego are the owners of aforementioned toys, yet they fail to ever really ‘own’ them, as it were. Not without talent they may be (and blessed with a ruthlessly efficient drummer), they ultimately fail to come into their own this evening, technical prowess failing to compensate for a lack of memorable tunes. Songs bluster by awash in noise and guitar fuzz, lurching from quiet to loud whenever a chorus rears its slovenly head – it’s all a bit Snow Patrol meets Foo Fighters, with only the intermittent glimpse of something more ambitious peeking through.

The main event then: *The Twilight Sad *have had quite a year, wonderful debut album Fourteen Albums & Fifteen Winters winning them an ardent fan base, not to mention appearing in our Albums of 2007 and claiming the hallowed Number One spot in that of Planet Sound’s. In fact, as we sidle up to 2008 it’s not too much of a push to place them at the head of a fleet of new Scottish talent – from the low-slung charm of Dananananaykroyd through the windswept drama of Broken Records, to name but two exponents of the cause. And tonight? Well…

Much has been made of James Graham’s thick, uncompromising brogue – and on opening ‘Cold Days From The Birdhouse’ it is both assured and slightly unhinged. If The Twilight Sad sound big on record (and they do), then they are positively gargantuan live. Towering guitars and eloquent lyrics abound, Graham making for a fantastic front man while Andy McFarlane cooks up a visceral storm with his guitar. It’s not long before Graham’s caterwauling about the place has resulted in the demise of the band’s solitary mic stand, and despite his immediate apologies to the venue and assurances he’ll pay for a new one (“This has happened a couple of times now,” he adds ruefully), a replacement stand is not forthcoming. On this state of affairs:_ “I feel like fucking Morrissey or Frank Sinatra or something”_.

And so an odd atmosphere is established, whereby Graham takes on the dual persona of naughty schoolboy (“I’ve broken the stand and now everyone’s all pissed off”) and heartfelt vocalist, regaling the crowd with anecdotes before losing himself completely in the sprawling soundscapes the group paint so well. Some fans in the front row have a commendable attempt at fixing the stand with limited success, but by this point it matters not – the band prevail, and mighty impressive they are too. ‘Talking With Fireworks/Here, It Never Snowed’ _in its oblique poetry and propulsive beat is perhaps the model ‘Sad song and a highlight tonight, while the cathartic white noise of climactic ‘I’m Taking The Train Home’ _is resonant and affecting: Graham strains and screams, crouched over his microphone while discord rages eminently around him. Coming on like the missing link between fellow countrymen Mogwai and Idlewild and every bit as enthralling as either of those bands in their pomp, it’s an eardrum-shattering spectacle of a finale.

At precisely 10.30pm the swell abates and house lights are up – there will be no encore, though a humbled and grateful Graham has already clambered from the stage to thank many audience members for coming out in person. Their last show in London for a while then, is triumphant in the face of adversity: a statement of intent and invitation to eagerly anticipate – nay, drool – over what this very special band hold up their sleeves come the future.

Photo: Dave Officer