The English do not know how to do summer. Sad, but true. We give it a go, with open-toe sandals, knotted handkerchiefs, flowery shirts and cocktails with those little paper umbrellas…but then a band like Best Coast hop over for a tour date or two and show us how it’s really done. Perhaps you’ve heard of them. They usually get some favourable adjectives thrown at them – surf garage pop punk California – rearrange as preferred.
So what do these collections of convenient labels know that we don’t? Well, this: Bethany Cosetino, founder, singer and principal songwriter, is completely obsessed with beaches, California, and the West Coast sound. With a mindset like that, she really only had two options: invent a Brian Wilson flavoured ice cream, or start a rock ‘n’ roll band. So she master-minded Best Coast from humble, drum-machine-dependent beginnings to become the ultimate expression of what California is, was, and ever shall be.
Back in deepest, darkest Manchester, a dungeon-ful of teenagers await the coming attractions, bunching up closer and getting louder as the booze gets comfy in their bellies. Guitarist Bobb Bruno potters about, quite comfortable in his domain, selling and signing shirts, tuning up guitars, a gigantic mane of black hair trailing down his back. He has a smile for everyone, whether they realise he’s in the band or not.
Then the lights dim, and the unmistakable notes of ‘California Girls‘ make for a fitting walk-on song. Cosetino ambles up to the microphone, checks her guitar is raspy enough, and launches her band into a set of quick and crazily catchy songs, full of runaway rhythms and dazzling simplicity. Fan favourite ‘Crazy for You‘ soon pops up, Cosetino’s voice rich with longing and a generous dose of reverb. The Ramones have trod on the Beach Boys’ toes, and the reaction is astounding.
Best Coast’s set-up is no mystery of sonic engineering. Beth Cosetino rocks a fuzz-tastic Telecaster, her vocal delivery halfway between a Joan Jett snarl and a Brenda Lee purr; Bobb Bruno wrings squeals and roars from his pawn-shop special; Ali Koehler hammers her drums headlong into the midst, setting a fast and freaky pace for a passionate, word-perfect audience. Cosetino stirs up her crowd, already in a dancing mood, into a frenzy: “How much fun are you having, mother FUCKERS?”
If ‘Crazy for You’ gets everyone psyched, ‘Boyfriend‘ sends them psycho. Crowd surfing abounds, quickly leading to stage invasions. The first invaders are unceremoniously escorted outside, but whilst the bouncers are busy, the rest of the front row climb up and start dancing with the band. Best Coast take it all in their stride, treating half a dozen mad fans on a tiny stage as nothing more than a natural reaction to the music.
With the end of the song, the fans take a bow and are led off, back into the throng. Cosetino looks at the crowd again, with newfound curiosity: “…I cannot believe that many people bum-rushed the stage on like, the fifth song.” The curiosity is mutual, as we witness more of the band’s laid-back approach to gigging. Cosetino accidentally gobs water all over her setlist, prompting Ali to provide a lesson in setlist sign language. Cosetino squints at her drummer, from ten yards away:
“Love…don’t…cost…a thing…WHAT THE FUCK? Who sings that?”
“J-Lo.”
“J-Lo? Oh yeah. Let’s do that one.”
Ten seconds and one fuzzbox J-Lo impression later, and suddenly nobody wants this night to end. Forget the French Riviera, balls to Cornwall, this is the Best Coast.
(Simon Moore)
