Shearwater

When it comes to great bands, there is no past, no Golden Age to contrast or lament - there is only Now. Earlier this year, Alan Sparhawk channelled Ziggy Stardust, eradicating any illusions of having “missed” the 70s, but the Bowie-cover wasn’t even the highlight of Retribution Gospel Choir’s non-stop devastation; RGC were their own highlight. One band you’d never expect to see live, however – channelled or otherwise – are Talk Talk. Tonight, then, it’s a revelation to see one of the pristine, supposedly unrepeatable artefacts of the 1980s (Spirit of Eden), effortlessly assimilated, developed, and brought to life by Shearwater.

Of all the venues they’ve played in the UK, the Bush Hall is the first that matches the dignity and intimacy of Shearwater’s records. As Meiburg told DiS after, “we’re finally getting to see our audience” – literally (away from dank venues), and figuratively (i.e. people who came to see Shearwater, rather than “that Okkervil side-project”). True, Will Sheff has the murder-ballads, political-dissidence, and romantic myths about dead poets to make him our Dylan (or a less-whiney Conor Oberst); like both, he sticks to trusted cadences and rhyme-schemes. This is counterpoint, though, not context, because Shearwater claim the wider territory from quiet to REALLY LOUD, and from near formlessness approximating birdsong or animal-noises (e.g. bows scraped on metal) to the emotional punch of their melodies. Likewise, Jonathan Meiburg is our whoever-he-wants-to-be, and there’s never any constraint on a voice that has a technical (and more importantly, emotional) range from Sigur Ros' Jonssi to Scott Walker.

On Palo Santo, Meiberg entered the lyrical world of Nico to write the last chapter of her myth. By merging the symbolist autobiography of her solo-albums with a life that began in post-war Germany, before she crossed the frozen borderline to embark on her years as icon, tragic heroine, and a poet surpassing many of her paramours. This is the saga that threads through tonight’s performance, mostly intercutting songs from Palo Santo and Rook (2008).

Within a few bars, Shearwater captivate, and rapidly pass the test of greatness that is the ability to add to impressive, if not classic, albums. “Travelling” may have one of the clunkier riffs, but it’s an ample skeleton on which to layer controlled feedback that builds into a tsunami (you try playing a guitar as axe and theremin). Likewise, “Hail, Mary” had been a rough diamond among polished gems, but here it’s rush after rush of endorphins. “Snow Leopard” starts with the strident piano-chords of “Pyramid Song” and ends with the cacophony of “Dollars & Cents” – strong influences might seem reprehensible, and Radiohead are the only other band who could pull this off live, yet it never occurred to them to combine the two, did it? Shearwater also give a lesson to the support band, Constantines who were perfectly competent, but essentially unmemorable: being able to go from 0 to 9 is more impressive than going from 5 to 10. Case in point: a vitriolic “Century Eyes” (‘“for John McCain”’), which echoes the Stooges’ “TV Eye”. Tight playing is always more powerful than merely loud, and throughout, the showmanship is just as impeccable – there are the dedications; the way that Thor the drummer lives up to his name; the crescendo before the encore; the procession through the crowd to close the set acoustically at the grand piano, everyone surrounding, rapt; oh, and that cover.

On record, the Talk Talk-influence is most apparent on “Home Life”, which unites brushed-cymbals & clarinet as on their pastoral masterpiece “New Grass”, but Shearwater add menace and even purpose to one of the most exquisite songs ever recorded. In a more impressive feat, they encore with one of Talk Talk’s more wilfully difficult numbers: the emotional impact hinging on just a few notes, repeated twice, with several minutes of atonal noise between. John Cale once said of Nico’s The Marble Index that it had to be kept down to 35 minutes, because any longer and he’d be responsible for some suicides. Shearwater keep it short lest we have a surfeit of beauty.