Oh man. I feel old. Older than I am. Older than the Big 30. Older than time itself. My neck hurts. My throat’s sore. My hair smells of fags and gangs and bands. My eyes are crusted with gunk, I can’t focus. This is the night after the morning before. I must be coming up.

And what a title that was : the bleary eyed morning after the bad trip that was Dog Man Star. The shiny new start. The slow fall back to a reality that’s bright and fresh after a night chasing dragons and demons.

And “Coming Up” is where it all started to go right for Suede. It’s their biggest selling album, and tonight, it sounds like their best. Not to denigrate the axe heroics of Bernie’s input in the band, but Coming Up just sounds like a perfect pop album : its got bright, twinkly choruses, guitars that sound like sleek millionaire jet planes taking off, lyrics that are both smart and dumb at the same time.

It’s got everything. And for a long period of time, I forgot that. Because songs like “Lazy” just remind me of a time when people liked Suede because they were in the charts, not because it was Suede.

As a whole, as a setpiece perfomed in concert, “Coming Up” is better than either “Suede” (which suffers from too many instances of odd pacing, sandwiching slow dark songs between fast romps), and “Dog Man Star” (which, no matter how good it is, rarely raises the tempo above the average heartbeat for the last half hour). This is Suede breaking on through to the other side : the daylight after the darkness, the dawn after the dusk.

And Richard is easily the best thing that ever happened to Suede. The “Dog Man Star “set on Tuesday night shows that, for all its genius, Bernard’s continued tenure in the band would’ve resulted in even darker, weirder stuff.

And spangly pop music rocks.

From the wonderful orchestral version of “She” (how I love those old intro tapes!) to the last, angling note of “Killing Of A Flashboy” in the encores this, this is Suede let loose. Because this is Suede now, playing the songs they wrote then, without the spectre of an absent Butler hanging over them. “Trash” is dispensed with more guts and passion than a De Niro movie. “Film Star” is just a great big crunchy slinky thing. And everyone throws their hands in the air, copying the video.

I’d like to point out that when they filmed the video, I was the one who started throwing my hands around during the chorus. Everyone’s copying me ; and they don’t even notice it. Flattery is the sincerest form of imitation, or something.

(I take PayPal by the way).

Just so long as you know that I can’t remember Suede making a bad single : apart from “Lazy”, which isn’t so much bad, as not amazing. When you set your standards as high as they do, it’s not always possible to hit it every time.

But hey, less of that. Next we get “Lazy”, and the amazing “By The Sea”. It sounds like heresy, but I’d forgotten how beautiful this song is. And as I said before, Brett’s not coasting today. Every high note. Bang on. A beautiful song about moving away, selling everything, starting again in a foreign town, somewhere by the sea. And if that isn’t a common theme amongst Suede lyrics, then neither is GayAnimalSex.

With barely a word, a sweat soaked band pummel on. Into “She”. Into a dark, at the time quite cliched sketch of a woman caught in a drugs nightmare. Surrounded by horrid, repressive strings, “She” is easily the best song about a bad trip ever.

“Beautiful Ones” (named after a Prince song, again) is just another kick ass, rock-pop list of stuff that celebrates our inner geek. That is, the community of the alienated, the outside, and we know there is another way. It’s a great big, rockin’ stomper and despite the fact that Suede play it every night, it still doesn’t bore. Much.

And after this, the previously underappreciated “Starcrazy”. On record, this always sounded, to me, like the runt of the litter, a shallow piece of fluff. But somehow, it works completely live. These songs aren’t about revelling in the vile : they’re about trying to get out it, trying to get away, anyway you can. They’re about whatever we do to make life bearable.

And then, comes “Coming Up’s” dark heart. I always saw these two songs as trying - and failing to emulate - the similarly dark third quarter of Dog Man Star. It’s nice to be wrong. As long as you don’t make a habit out of it.

But “Picnic By The Motorway” and the awesome, never been better, “Chemistry Between Us” are even better than anything I’ve heard so far. I think. Alex and Richard seem to be in some bizarre form of telepathy as they trade off - perfectly - a new, improvised squall of feedback and noise. And it’s gorgeous.

So much for “Coming Up” being just an average Suede album, eh? An average Suede album is still far beyond what most people in the industry even dream of being capable of. And I’m talking to you here, Mr. Strokes.

And after this comes the lullaby of “Saturday Night”. I’m *almost* talked out. Almost. There’s still the gorgeous heartbroken “Another No One”, following the tradition of Brett’s solo acoustic slot - except this time Brett fluffs a couple of chords. Good. And there I was thinking they were invincible. Or perfect. It’s like Marilyn’s beauty mole : the imperfections makes it perfect.

And after this, a botch job of “Attitude” (this time it’s Alex’s fault - his keyboards don’t work). And the pounding, desperate, urgent “Golden Gun”. Which is still about a gazillion times better than “Attitude” and rocks harder than an asteroid on a collison course with Sean Connery. Hubba Hubba.

And then... Mat’s first ever official writing credit with Brett : the amazing, breathtaking, ghostly “Europe Is Our Playground”, which evokes the ballrooms of the thirties, long nights of lonesome backpacking in the streets of Paris, Spain, Cambersands. This is what pop music is all about. Popular music that speaks to us about our emotions ; not a commodity to be bought and sold to generate profit.

And with this, it all changes. Just three more short songs. Just a rampant, headbanging , definitive version of “This Hollywood Life”. Richard leaps around like a cat on an electrified fences. A grin spread wider than a cheshire cat, pulling out those chords. As Alex leans in a crouch, head buried in feedback, lost in TV and noise. It’s awesome.

Oh. My.

And then, a fumbled, shaginabag, breathtaking, as-good-as-it-always-should-ve-been, definitive version of “Animal Nitrate”. And the riproaring, headshearing, is-life-this-good? race to the finish line called “Killing Of A Flashboy”.

There are no words for this. If words were enough we wouldn’t need music. and with music like this, we need the music. Need it like oxygen...

Only registered users can write comments.
Please login or register.

Powered by AkoComment 1.0 beta 2!