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I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: York is a bit weird. From the “quirky” nightclubs to the Yorvik Viking Centre, not a lot here seems to make a massive amount of sense. Usually, this is quite sweet. Endearing, even. But the night that nationally acclaimed Hot. New. Talent. rocked up to York in the form of These New Puritans, I questioned this city more than I have ever been compelled to before.
From having graced the cover of the Guardian Music supplement, to their upcoming appearances at the Great Escape and Benicassim festivals, this is a band tipped for great things. Imagine the palpable disappointment, then, when only a handful of people showed up to see the hysterically hyped bright young things play York’s Crescent. The gig had the feel of a youth club full of mildly bored teenagers watching some rubbish local band, with their girlfriends dancing dutifully at the side. Quite a far cry from the rave reviews, packed London/Leeds/Manchester gigs, and the fact that they are a good band.
It was very difficult to tell that they are a good band from this show (I know this to be fact. Question it not). Try as I might to be positive, These New Puritans seemed just as bored as half of the audience. Looking like the puppets on Stingray being worked by someone who frankly couldn’t be bothered (special mention to the synths player for looking like she wasn’t even moving – a laudable effort that made Marina Aquamarina look charismatic), they churned out the tunes without bothering to unglaze their eyes. However, I feel that the show was a case of the blind leading the blind; or the bored leading the bored. Without the audience going wild to their songs, the band couldn’t seem to muster the enthusiasm to compel us to dance, sing and cheer. As a result, the performance was deeply self-conscious (the band applauding themselves), mannered (the front-man’s attempt to “rock out” for our benefit) and thus, boring.
It felt as though everyone was just going through the motions of enjoying themselves, whether band or observer, to stiffly keep up the pretence that we were all having fun. Much like a puppet show, everyone played their roles, wore their costumes and mimed their prescribed emotions, albeit thoroughly unwillingly. Having cut their set short by quarter of an hour (who could blame them?), afterwards I felt deeply disenchanted. Was York to blame? Was it the fact that everyone looked so “indie” it hurt? Was it the puppet show that was so depressing, or was it York’s lack of a decent venue? Whatever it was, the dismal atmosphere was neatly summed up after the gig by the line “Am I staying here? Fuck this, I’ve got half a pork pie at home.” Quite. Next time, I’ll see them in Leeds.
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