It’s a choppy Thursday night in mid-November. The traffic slowly creeps along Great Eastern Street as city-boys in quickly de-valuing cars make their way home after another disappointing day at the office. As the Gherkinites mass-migrate from their office desks, they are replaced by the arty socialites of London, descending on the Reebok lounge in well-dressed groups of two’s and threes for a night of fashion, free booze, and maybe a little live music thrown in for good measure.
The venue itself is relatively new, and from the smell of recently laid linoleum and industrial sealant the facelift was only finished a few hours before. Some people gather in the upper level, sitting casually in comfortable couched admiring trainers displayed on the walls or flicking through the newest edition of Artrocker magazine featuring cover-stars Nelson. Others assemble downstairs in the basement level, with a small stage area set up with moulded white chairs, a set of decks against a wall and a makeshift bar round the corner with bottles of Jack Daniels set out on the table awaiting eager consumption.
The people dribble downstairs gradually as the night begins to kick off with a thoughtful DJ set (although Interpol were unfortunately absent from the playlist). They all look like they are either writers, designers or magazine writers from their fashionably close-fitting clothes and inventive hairstyles, but thankfully there was a healthy cross-section of people from different age groups from the teenage to the middle-aged.
As more people gather, a slight sense of panic undercuts the scene as those who were merely sipping their free drinks now descend on the bar with more vigor, spurned on by a mixture of peer pressure and a slight fear that their last drink may be their last for the night. Such fears were unfounded, and succinctly disproved by the fact that the bar stocks of Red Stripe and Jack Daniels appeared to be infinite, and the spirits of the assorted revelers began to be raised to casual merriment without anyone being left behind.
As people talk in ever growing groups and the atmosphere feels more like a house-party than a formal launch night, a spokesperson from Artrocker introduces tonight’s band, Nelson. The Parisian post-punk artrockers sit atop informal stools, the moulded chairs no-where to be seen now they fulfilled their aesthetic purpose. Two of the band-members are holding acoustic guitars, whilst one has a keyboard atop his lap and a strange tube emerging from the keyboard in his mouth. The crowd gives a polite applause and the band break into an acoustic version of ‘The Over Song’. They go into the vocals acapella, and sing ‘I am not safe enough, I am not clean enough’ with gusto and a warm tone emerges from the acoustic guitars and keyboard reminiscent of a tradition French accordion. The song is a pleasant into, but somewhat understated without percussion or amplification, and the crowd at the back of the room continue talking regardless.
‘Slow Falling’ seems to be better suited to the acoustic set, the lyrics seeming more intimate and the harmony of the vocals adding more complexity to the song. The vocals are reminiscent of Pete and The Pirates and the chords of the keyboard now take on rich resonance like some of Mogwai’s more ambient songs. The few at the front seem to be transfixed, the band on the stage playing with an air of confidence that many English bands can only dream of. Again the crowd continues their chattering, and the band politely asked them to lower their voices. In a small venue with acoustic guitars, the band had met their match in the collective voices of the over-social crowd, which was indeed a shame.
I talk with the keyboard player (who also plays bass with the band and whose name I neglected to ask) about the performance. I tell him about my comparisons with Pete and The Pirates and Mogwai, and instead of launching into an explanation of their complete originality he seems quite pleased with the comparison. He also confesses to like The Mystery Jets and Klaxons and has a strong appreciation for British music as a whole. I was expecting him to be self-involved and pretentious in a very stereotypically Parisian way, but rather than being an archetypal stoic he seems quite relaxed and happy to give his opinion. I finally say thank you for an enjoyable set, and quickly ask him what he thought of the people talking in the background. He responds with a slight look of disappointment and a shrug whilst saying ‘Oh well, what can you do?’ Perhaps he may be a little bit of a stoic after all.