The Flaming Lips

Some days you just wanna die. We’ve all had them. Then just occasionally, there’s a glimpse of hope, a chink of light at the end of the everlasting tunnel. A moment when child-like innocence and the sheer wonderfulness of the universe combine to remind you it was fun to be alive, before it became horribly obvious the entire world is a very shit place. And so if music is escapism, does that make The Flaming Lips escape artists?

Let’s quit the wibbling for now, though. First there’s the small matter of a supporting cast with more outfits than instruments.

Steve Burns and his band do the usual American indie tour support trick of trudging out forgettable guitar dross, albeit with added giant angel wings and a camera on the drummer’s head – until something strange happens. Lips leader Wayne Coyne demands a request from the wings and in response we get a cute three-line sing-a-long about kittens, quickly followed by a rocking audio-visual fest with a film of the coolest homelessly-dressed dancing man of all time. Enough to win over even the harshest critic.

Regardless, Clinic immediately hike the dressing-up stakes with their expected surgeon garb, but that doesn’t make it any less creepy. There’s a definite feeling these men aren’t wearing medical masks for effect, more because they’re very probably wanted by the police for various unspeakable Sweeney Todd crimes. Oh and they’re great, incidentally.

The Flaming Lips are, as they proclaim, the greatest show on earth. Or at least the greatest you’ll fit in a venue the size of the Apollo. Glitter, confetti, those omnipresent life-sized dancing soft toys; and that’s just within perfectly sweet opener ‘Race For The Prize’.

Whatever the reasons for covering ‘7 Nation Army’ straight afterwards, however, it kills the atmosphere partially. Yes, it’s the White Stripes' best song, ever. Yes, it’s far more interesting to watch live when played by The Flaming Lips and accompanied by 20-odd lunatics in giant animal costumes. No, that doesn’t mean we want to hear it.

Forget that, though. Without the benefit of the best possible reminders, it can be easy to forget how many undisputedly fabulous songs Coyne and co have at their disposal – enough to furnish a dozen lesser bands with an utterly defining tune, in fact. So in amongst the fake blood and giant mirrorballs, it’s quite simply a pleasure to be aurally blessed with the likes of ‘Do You Realize??’ and tangerine-tastic feel good hit ‘She Don’t Use Jelly’.

Young Wayne can talk too. A monologue on apathy towards the seemingly unstoppable never-ending evils of Messers Blair and Bush is completely accurate, but sits a little uneasily with a cheering crowd generally most likely to exact political change through nothing more radical than voting.

But nobody could deny the moving Elliott Smith tribute, before ‘Waiting For A Superman’ is dedicated to the late great man. It’s a truly touching moment, with Coyne urging those in similarly distressed states to hang on in there, assuring us it will work out. Naïve words in any other setting perhaps, but just for a moment tonight it feels as if everything really might turn out fine after all.