ANY band that arrives already wrapped in a shining ball of hype – particularly when much of it comes courtesy of that arch talker-upper Alan McGee – might find themselves the subject of disdain from all those who don't wish to be seen as easily suck
ered by marketing.
That same fate might yet await Phil Spector-imitating punkabilly quartet Glasvegas, although barely a few minutes in their company should convince any audience that this is a band with its own definitive personality.
Don't believe anyone who makes glib comments about their "living up to the hype" – they haven't had a chance to do that yet – but do listen to those who talk about them with breathless excitement. If Glasvegas can retain their defiant individuality, then they'll deserve all the fame and longevity coming their way.
Perhaps the most obvious symptom of this individualism is singer and songwriter James Allan, whose outfit of quiff, leathers and sunglasses means he resembles a Fifties rock 'n' roll greaser as filtered through the lens of the Jesus and Mary Chain. Here, against a dark background which is only sporadically lit by the flaring of their monochrome back projection, Dalmarnock-raised Allan, his guitarist brother Rab, bassist Paul Donoghue and standing drummer Caroline McKay look rather like the last gang in town.
Allan says little to the packed and howling crowd, merely a couple of muttered thanks and a dedication to "the best band in Glasgow, Madskull". He might be wrong there, but expect the indie-rockers' stock to rise quickly by association.
His songs – what he calls poems – speak of knife crime (Flowers and Football Tops), detention centre youths (Polmont On My Mind) and absentee fatherhood (the mountainous Daddy's Gone) in terms which evocatively paint west and central Scotland as a kind of Wild West frontier land, with added rain. Hype only gets you so far, and Glasvegas have the legs for the rest of the journey.
The full article contains 327 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
