MIDWAY THROUGH the last song of the evening, Liam Gallagher casually consulted his wristwatch. While it was a wholly arrogant gesture, I couldn't help thinking that he was checking to see how much time he had before America finally gave up on him and his Oasis boobery. C'mon everyone -- the time has come.
Maybe it was because I walked into the show just as Noel launched into his awful, braying "Where Did It All Go Wrong?" -- a singularly bad song on an album (Standing on the Shoulder of Giants) that contains only one track that doesn't completely suck. Live, it stank only slightly less than it does on the record, maybe because all the cheering at the Mariners game I attended earlier had dulled my ears. (Some jackass seated next to me actually held up a decibel counter -- NERD.) That could be it, but I'm thinking maybe the reason I've decided to pull the plug on my own personal Oasis lifeboat is because in the six days preceding the show, Seattle had been visited by two of the U.K.'s best and most underrated (in America) bands. And truth be told, even they didn't put on very good shows.
Still, they blew the shit out of Oasis.
When the Charlatans UK played the very first EndFest, back a hundred years or so ago, they were barely post-adolescent. They'd already had a big alternative radio hit with the Hammond-errific "Weirdo." Singer Tim Burgess was all zitty and rumpled, but when he smiled it was like the sky cracked open. (Why do they ever have to grow old?) The Charlatans were on the road with fellow Brits Catherine Wheel at the time, and the next night in Vancouver, BC, Catherine Wheel's drummer Neil Sims asked me if I thought the Charlatans had what it took to capture an American audience as sizable as the one they had in their homeland. "Shit yes," I answered. Listening to the Hammond is just like going to church, and Burgess, with his perfectly slouched shoulders, has talent and charm to spare. That night following their performance at the Commodore Ballroom, the Charlatans abruptly quit the tour, saying they didn't like the songs on their current album enough to play them night after night for an audience that hardly knew who they were. Catherine Wheel continued the tour alone.
The Charlatans' March 30 show at the Showbox suffered from muddled sound, but it was still a treat to see this kid who could crack the sky return nearly a decade later and rain glorious Brit pop down on an adoring, sold-out crowd. Married and residing in Los Angeles, Burgess now looks like a Prada ad, the picture of cool confidence and assured relaxation. Original keyboardist Rob Collins died in a car crash several years ago, but his successor Tony Roberts raged magnificently on the Hammond and several other boards. I spent the duration of five songs standing in the side-stage ladies' restroom, where the organ's humongous, Rotosonic spinning Leslie speaker was housed, too loud to be on stage. Believe me when I say it was like church in there.
Compared to the band's last date at the Showbox, the show was lackluster, but only because the previous set had been a spectacular display of fog machines and long-lost exuberance. This show chugged steadily, with no fog and only a handful of favorite tunes.
As happy coincidence would have it, Catherine Wheel played ARO.space four nights later. They blew into town two days earlier to rehearse for a six-date promotional tour in advance of their forthcoming album, Wishville. Shortly after their last appearance in Seattle, Catherine Wheel were dropped from their longtime American label, Mercury, and the band had to jump through several hoops in order to land a new label. In the end, it was Sony who gave them a new home.
Quite contrary to the Charlatans, Catherine Wheel have enjoyed their biggest audience not in the U.K., but in the U.S. Like Bush, they were almost unheard of back home until several albums had been released stateside. The show at ARO.space was sold-out, despite the band not releasing an album since 1997's Adam and Eve. "We haven't played a show in 22 months," offered singer Rob Dickinson, "and that's not an excuse." Sadly, it wasn't an excuse for the band's very Bush-like new songs, either, a glaring departure from the heavily corrosive shoegazery that Catherine Wheel does better than anyone else attempting the same. Dickinson's velvety baritone rose and fell against guitarist Brian Futter's wah-wah-heavy maelstrom, creating a sonic rope-burn that seared hotter the tighter it got. Given the recent label woes, it's not surprising that the band might tailor their new material to capture the ears of an entity that only hears radio hits. The single has a riff ripped right out of Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus."
I've seen this band put on some of the best live shows ever, and it was with some sadness that I noticed the band's heart didn't seem to be in the show at ARO.space that night. Then again it wasn't a proper concert, merely a teaser for a full-on tour beginning in May, and all that label rejection had to take a serious bite out of the band's collective self-esteem. However, despite the addition of a new youngblood bass player (a 22-year-old total hottie, the spitting image of Radiohead's Thom Yorke -- without the walleye), Catherine Wheel lacked the gusto of their former shows. The band's trademark song, "Black Metallic," featured only a few seconds of improvisation, clocking in at barely seven minutes. Normally that song stretches past the 15-minute mark. "Kill Rhythm" would have been outstanding had the sound not gone out in the middle of it. All in all it seemed the band was just fulfilling an obligation, and judging from the throng of radio folk who followed the members of Catherine Wheel to the Cha-Cha after the show, the obligation didn't end at ARO.space. Poor boys -- I'm betting they'll be back to their old selves later this year.
And then there's Oasis, rolling into the Paramount on April 5 in THREE tour buses. A band infamous for putting on absolutely horrible live shows rife with hissy fits and Noel's not-so-great singing. A band with one great album and a bunch of mediocre crap surrounding it. A band whose boorish frontman is married to one of the all-time starfuckers. A man who can't put a five-word sentence together without using "fuckin' cunt" twice. A man who can't keep his eyes off his goddamn watch in the middle of a song.
Three British bands in a week. One was good, one was sad, and the other just plain sucked ass.
Hey Liam, you really wanna know what time it is?
Stop writing furious letters. It's My Party returns next week.
