Few things in life are more Sunday night than Teenage Fanclub, right?
Over a career spanning almost thirty years, the Glaswegian quintet have continually refined their knack for delivering timeless, grown up pop, refusing to abandon a formula locked into the bygone age of West Coast idealism. To square that circle, Sunday night is an evening in that sort of timeless hinterland; is it the last hurrah of the weekend, or just the void before another soulless five days of hum drum?
The punters seem to know: it’s been a six year wait for TFC’s latest album Home and a similar age since the avuncular Fannies played Leeds, but even the chilly weather and getting up in the morning hasn’t dimmed the city’s ardour for them. Vantage points are almost impossible to gain within the long sold out Stylus venue, and singer Norman Blake‘s promise of a round after the show looks like it could cost him quite a bit.
It’s a show that becomes something akin to death and taxes in its own sense of inevitability; after opening with a slightly inward looking version of Start Again the comforting hug of songwriting triumvirate Blake, Raymond McGinlay and Gerard Love descends upon an audience as much in thrall to their craft as their awkward but thoroughly lovable gait. Having a stack of perfectly familiar goodies but oldies helps of course, from the gentle country of I Don’t Want Control Of You to the wistful fuzz pedal whirl of Here’s Thin Air, each layered instalment prose over melody over craft over hope.
What’s remarkable is that this is a band who’ve managed to be associated with a number of movements, from the original fey “Indie” of the late 80s through shoegaze to Britpop, whilst in reality they were convening according to their own rules, never having more it seems than a peripheral interest in appearing contemporary. TFC also swim against the tide (and temptation) of becoming a heritage act, pension building with whole torpid album retrospectives and the like; tonight confirms them as a high functioning, creative organism not quite ready yet for passing the baton to one of their many younger admirers.
All that said, it’s still the largely babysitter-friendly crowd who’re calling the shots in terms of expectations, and whilst there’s a warm reception for Home’s batch of songs (especially the mellifluous I’m In Love and via Hold On‘s gritty scousebeat), delaying the inevitable simply makes them want it more. Having all been good boys and girls we’re then rewarded with populist main set closers Sparky’s Dream and The Concept, before in the encores everyone finally gets to lose their shit (in a nice way) to ever-wonderful Star Sign and, as a finale, the nuggety classic Everything Flows.
As everyone goes home for a cocoa, the truth is obvious: Teenage Fanclub are on some kind of unique trajectory, one where they steer round the black holes of becoming a tribute band to themselves or treat the loyalty and respect of their fans as a credit card.
Few things in life are more Sunday night than them, but there are few better ways to eke out a few more hours of down time than this.