Beck Review (2008)

 

Beck / Yeasayer

Manchester, Apollo

July 2

***

Having been one of indie’s alternately quirky, inventive and maddening figures for fifteen years now, Beck Hansen can be forgiven most moody moments. Manchester’s crowd, having paid handsomely for the privilege, stand in anticipation of which mind the singer might be in tonight. First, though, Yeasayer’s set which with all its interweaved layers is frank, open and occasionally so left field it skews the place into a hall of mirrors. The Brooklyn mob really have injected something inventive into us this year with their burbling poppy smiley stuff and for once we’re happy to note that it is goddamn infectious. Knowing their place, however, they humbly leave the stage, paying homage to the king who is to follow. And the crowd breathe in the sweat of the excruciating moments before his highness is to appear. 

But when he does, nobody really notices. More than a few people at the back are clapping the bassist, who seems his spit, before Beck does appear, unassuming and intent on making the point that he’s only one part of his band. Seems he’s not gonna be comfortable with his Indie God persona tonight, then, which is admirable as the group launch into a set that barely pauses for respite. Normally, we love that kind of thing. We love being pummelled into submission by music; long, rambling, spoken introductions are best left to Rowley Birkin QC and, well, let’s say Bob Dylan just cause our mate DD loves him and we want to wind him up. But here tonight, Beck just seems uninspired to do anything so mundane as engage the crowd between songs. Devil’s Haircut comes early – unlike the hippy-haired vocalist himself, who seems to have morphed into Chesney Hawkes’ slightly irascible dad. 

And though the band are a great garage rock outfit whose tightness should enable these careful, wilful, cheeky songs to sparkle and soar, somehow it stays flat. Nausea, The New Pollution, Loser pass by in a fug before a bunch of tracks from new album Modern Guilt wake the Beckster up a bit and things palpably improve. Soon, it’s over; a through-the-motions Where It’s At finishing it off before the band shuffle off stage. The encore’s the most exciting part of his set but the most exciting part of the night came two hours earlier with the support. Beck’s earned his spurs, of course, and eight idea packed albums have surely earned him the right to have the odd average gig here and there. Next time he’s here, after all, he’ll probably do the set flying around on a jet pack or something.

Reverend Shoo