Captain Phoenix

Old Blue Last, London - 16 Jan 2008

by Jon Fletcher

Easy listening Razorlight prove out of place in Hoxton

"Even when they rock, Burrows’ crooning seems to count against them, suffocating the songs with anonymous polish"

The Old Blue Last is intimately acquainted with Vice magazine, which has offices in the same building. As a result, the bar is usually stuffed full of an ungodly collection of Bambi-legged, day-glo ghouls. When the likes of Foals play here, it all seems to work, kind of. When Captain Phoenix play here, it just doesn’t.

We’re not exactly sure where Captain Phoenix would work. Eastbourne Bowls Club perhaps, for this is a band that sweats Radio 2 from every pore. We’re told they've decided not to make much of the fact that singer Ben is the brother of Andy Burrows, Razorlight’s long-suffering drummer. This is strange. The Razorlight link will be like a beacon in the night sky for the demographic that is likely to respond to this band (and it’s not the regular clientele of the Old Blue Last) - shorthand for “music that’s nice”.

Burrows has a nice voice. The band writes nice songs. They look nice too – hairily handsome in that way that mothers like. Their fans seem nice, politely applauding after each song; and their lyrics are nice, though Burrows is rather preoccupied with railing against indie scenesters, which seems odd given our location. That said, ‘Living On The Guestlist’ at least has a certain punch to it; ‘Same Old Story’ is a cloying soup of over-worked clichés, including this insightful gem: “Why is everybody in this town so fucked up? / Same old story – people think that they are what they are not / So come on Doctor, what’s wrong with me? / I don’t wear a fucking stupid hat and claim I’ve never heard of MTV.” Some of the finest rhyming couplets this side of Cheshunt, although mother won’t like the swearing.

Because the band don’t arrive on stage until almost 11.30, we only hear the first five tracks before scuttling off in search of the last bus home. Even so, we catch enough to convince us that the band’s salvation doesn’t lie in their stage show. Despite the odd bit of chat, the towering Burrows seems oddly rigid, while the rest of the band go through the rock motions without really seeming to enjoy it. The music itself starts well with some resplendent harmonies and a clunking bass line, but the schmaltz is overpowering. Even when they rock, Burrows’ crooning seems to count against them, suffocating the songs with anonymous polish. What’s left is that most improbable of bands, Razorlight. Lite.

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