Widely considered pompous and annoying, as well as disturbingly ambitious and in total love with himself (depending on which music magazine you read, of course), what really matters is whether Borrell, and his band, can put on a good show or not. An
d they can. Sort of.
Combining a healthy mix of old favourites and newly recorded gems, the band inject a perfunctory amount of energy into their performance leaving no-one in any real doubt they received their money's worth. However, when you are a half-decent indie band bestowing U2-sized pretensions, such live shows require – practically demand – a huge sense of occasion; the feeling anything could happen at any given moment; something more than simply running through your set with a passable amount of puff.
Last night at the Corn Exchange that's exactly what we got: a contracted performance with little or no complaint from the audience. So, let's take a closer look and consider Borrell for a moment, shall we?
Devoid of any real charisma or charm, while Razorlight's loyal legion of onlookers would probably agree Borrell is no Freddie Mercury or Robert Plant, his connection with his audience could surely have stretched beyond a simple "Hi, Edinburgh" or "Thanks". Not so.
Some may argue that it's Borrell's music that does the talking, and if so, well, his routine performance could be described as the musical equivalent of a professional footballer who churns out a series of monotonous, predictable cliches during a post-match interview.
Adorning a purple jacket (navy blue depending on what lights were shining) and backed by guitarists sporting Fred Perry and adidas T-shirts respectively, the band's backdrop of giant, illuminated mirrors seemed to literally reflect the band's self-image of themselves.
The audience, meanwhile, had managed to shake off their Sunday hangovers, singing along in unison to the trump of In The Morning, although songs from recent album Slipway Fires – much of which was written on the Isle of Tiree in the Inner Hebrides where Borrell immersed himself in rural Highland culture, as well as teaching guitar to youngsters on the island – are still a little too unfamiliar for most fans to get excited about.
Indeed, from the early U2 sound of Burberry Blue Eyes to the piano-led Blood For Wild Blood, it was a bit like listening to Ocean Colour Scene had they grown up listening to the likes of The Who instead of Paul Weller and The Jam. Nevertheless, when you have a number one hit like America to fall back on, it's easy to gee up your audience again.
By now, though, Borrell's jacket had since been removed to reveal a white shirt, sleeves rolled up in busy-busy fashion (think Bruce Springsteen back in the 80s), yelling lyrics that ranged from the overtly sincere to the ludicrously literal. Still, the punters lapped it all up eagerly, the only signs of rebellion resulting in the occasional (empty) beer cup being hurled towards the stage – although the few that landed were several rows short.
And that just about sums up Razorlight at the moment. Once an intense, highly provocative bunch of petulant upstarts who would leave their audience lager-soaked, fists punching the air, their performances are now about as safe as milk. Their audience are more likely to say "Excuse me, please" rather than "Get out my way" when making their way to the exits.
