The romantic noirish style of the Howling Bells is perfectly at home in North London’s Koko, a triple levelled ballroom resplendent in velvety red and gold furniture and detail set off by a huge overhanging mirrorball. Shame young 4-piece Last Gang were all style over substance, because with his high cheekbones, red trousers and open-shirted guitar-strumming confidence singer Kristian cuts a credible rockstar figure. Only problem is, their music is pupil-dilatingly, eye-glazingly dull in every possible way – predictable hooks, flat vocals and embarrassing lyrics belie numerous press comparisons to The Clash. The lights are on but nobodies home. The much talked about Vincent Vincent and the Villains luckily filled the void where Last Gang’s personality should have been, not that the crowd seemed to notice. Vincent, clad in a cropped matadors jacket, and his villains are in a time warp with room for just four. While every other band seems to be replaying the 70s, VV&V are instead reliving the 50s and in the context it sounds remarkably fresh and the band is easy to like. Despite VV crooning song after charming song telling its own little story in its own Buddy Holly via rockabilly way the crowd remain comatose, and when Vincent attempts a participant handclap intro with ‘I’m on my own, I’m on my own’ he is singing the truth. No matter, the band closes with a moodily triumphant End of the Night and have gained one more admirer if nothing else.
Howling Bells take a couple of songs to warm up but I’m relieved to see that they do; six months ago they performing a soulless London performance that made me think they might be a band captured best on record but tonight they manage to muster up some magic. Opening with The Bell Hit, The Wishing Stone and throwing in b-side This City’s Burning it’s not until they get to In the Woods, where the Stein sibling share vocals, that they produce a real spine tingling moment. It’s hard to pinpoint why the Howling Bells aren’t a spectacular live band; Juanita Stein has one of the most gorgeous voices going, and their country flavoured moody songs are near perfect. Ultimately, sadly, watching them play is a hollow experience. Juanita has a self conscious ‘who me? I’m just a girl’ demeanour that can be frustrating to watch, but then it dawns on me, when I notice that a disproportionate number of the audience are male: she’s not performing for me. The girls in the crowd are slinking sexily shut-eyed, lost, while the guys are gazing at the stage. Across the Avenue is atmospheric, evoking the duskiness of Mazzy Star, and makes you think how wonderful it is that a band can be so Australian yet not at the same time. Juanita tells the crowd this is her favourite venue, in her favourite fucking city, and that this is their biggest gig ever. They close with understated rock anthem Low Happening, and after barely an hour on stage they’re finished, leaving us bathed in a calmly sensual glow. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
