Tonight, the jury is well and truly out for Eagulls; are they going to live up to the hype, or end up being one of those bands. The ones who release one album of lads-shouting-over-guitars, and then are dropped like a bag of warm dog waste by their adoring public.
Well, not exactly. After shuffling onstage looking like the slack MFs on the freak scene, there is the worrying sense that we’ve heard all this before – scuzzy guitars, yowled vocals and an overall slovenly aesthetic hasn’t exactly been fresh since J. Mascis and co. first entered the public’s conscious.
Maybe it’s the weather, something in the water or the sweatier-than-normal atmosphere in the Hold, but something is different; despite first appearences this is no tired, indeh retread of old tropes. For a band who seem to hate everything, how very GenX of them, they are sure having a lark on stage, swerving (at times) slightly too far towards the self-indulgent. Whatever, they manage to pull it back, with no small thanks to singerman George’s best attempts to take some Gallagher swagger out of the arenas and into the confines of the Shipping Forecast and it begins to pay dividends – even causing that ever-elusive beast, the pit. Well, it was a one-man pit but still, after months of gigs as vital as a dodo anything untoward is pleasant (pleasant is the wrong word, but I’m sure you get the picture).