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ROCK Teena e Fanclu [Cornershop
Glasgow: Barrowland, Sun 28 Sep ,-'.-- ti 6: Remember Cornershop? Circa 1992, titchy amps, world obscuring hair, fidgety indie noise with a penchant for name dropping Hanif Kureishi and Frank Bough in the same song. Cute but crap. These days Leicester's dandiest are mixing slinky hip hop beats (rendered by not one but two funky drummers), sitar solos and stolen Velvet Underground moments. Singer Tjinder Singh is no patter merchant, but he ducks about the stage unfettered by Captain Caveman sideburns, and sings ’Brimful of Asha' like the top ten hit it should have been. And if The List’s word isn't good enough, the band come endorsed by Joan Osbourne and The Guardian, not to mention receiving the late Alan Ginsberg's bowl of approval.
If you think the breezy esoterica of Cornershop an odd choice to precede the most consistent of rock ’n' roll combos, you may be on to something. That or you're a pig-eared critic with a concrete heart who couldn’t tell the difference between a perfect pop song and the latest opus from 3 Colours Red. The new long player may approximate sleepwalking sixties pop in places but it scores three going on four great Fanclub moments. Other bands build a career on less.
’Hiya!’ chirps Norman Blake to a crowd who at once roll over and ask to be tickled on the tum. He thanks us for coming when we could be at home watching Full Circle With Michael Palin, and tells a gag about these cannonballs who ate a clown and . . . even his little sister groans. It's her first gig and she’s propping up the bar. Smart girl.
The set draws mostly from the new Songs From Northern Britain album and from Grand Prix. There’s
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Norman's songs (cheers), Raymond's songs (applause), and Gerry’s songs (cheers and applause). 'Starsign' and ’The Concept' are concessions to playing on home turf, the latter given suitably concept LP treatment. ‘The guitar solos aren’t long enough,‘ barks a passing metalhead pal with double top irony. Go, Norman, 90!
Teenage Fanclub are a national treasure, make no mistake. One suspects they lack the pragmatic will of their heroes, Neil Young or Alex Chilton, to reinvent themselves, but how can you diminish the happy hour glow of something like ’Sparky’s Dream'? Even the normally combat trouser-sporting, testosterone-pumped Barrowlands clientele enjoys a group hug. Metaphorically speaking, you understand, big man. Norman dedicates the song to Cornershop. He's a sweet guy. (Rodger Evans)
slips seamlessly betwecm the likes of 'The Cutter and ‘The Killing iv'loon' Theres even an extended reprise of 'Ci'orodiles' to make your nape-hair rigid. And Mac, tool as a c-c-c-c cucurriber as he gulees e'idles‘s Jack Daniels, but surely S\‘.’Callil(] buckets beneath the ol‘iliriatory long coat he xrmsts on wearing throughout Only at the end of the (iii; on an emotional 'Otean Rain' does he let down his rtuarril
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Strangelove Edinburgh, The Venue, Wed 1 Oct **
Criticise Strangelove in front of any of those misguided souls who consider themselves 'fans' and they’ll sniffin inform you that singer Patrick Duff has 'been through some serious shit', as if that guarantees him instant, untouchable bed-sit martyrdom. Maybe if, on the iourney back from the brink of despair he'd nipped into a servrce station and invested in some tunes, he could've avoided this embarrassment. Because tonight, he makes An A-Grade twat of himself in front of a less than heavmg Venue. He's the epitome of bitchy, handbags at dawn arrogance as he swaggers, preens and basks in the hysterical adulation of some imaginary army of blighted out3iders. Oh, you could call it star-scraping self-belief in the gutters of blinkered indifference if you like, but perhaps not.
Can the tiny farm of disCiples at the lip of the stage truly find salvation in this desperately average band? Isn't anyone bothered that they only have about three songs? lt's embarrassmg; the seven am comedown-glamour that they strive for is missed by miles. During ’Superstar' (one of their three songs inCidentaIly), Patrick goes for the full ’We're the Wild, Trashy, Beautiful Ones’ monty, grappling with outstretched hands and bawling 'You’re a Starl' at glitter-specked individuals. It’s a self-consCious attempt at a kind of Suede-esque communion but any sense of Us vs Them romance is punctured by Patrick's tiresomely haughty between song prattle. He stamps his little feet and screams for our approbation, snarling at the crowd in a gazelle-hipped take on Oasis' mad for it schtick
Perhaps he’s simply playing the part of the pop-star brat in an attempt at some pseudo-postmodernist comment on the nature of stardom. But why bother? Is it to mask the fact that, apart from 'The Greatest Show Oh Earth', Strangelove have scant eVidence of a talent to lift them to the giddy heights of actual stardom? Does anyone care? (Paul Whitelaw)
Strangelove's Patrick Duff: less than
sparkling f div", 5.- l l STAR RATINGS t r r r r Unmissable l 1’ r * 4r Very good l t * * Worth a shot l t it Below average i * You've been warned J