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Suede-Head, Camden Falcon Gig Review

Simon Williams

14 March 1992





Submitted by: Inge Klinkers





THREE MONTHS Into 1992 and not one scene has been fabricated, not one genre generated. Finally it seems as though bands have stopped staring at each others' shoes and wah-wah pedals and started gazing at the stars, leaving us insignificants whacking away In hackland finally, marvellously, stumped for crass generalisations.

Enter Suede, swaying in a groovily ambiguous breeze of their own fragrant making. But not before New York's Werefrogs have perplexed the vexed onlookers. The trio are a bit Woodstock and extremely Hair Bear Bunch gone rock, weirdo merchants with a penchant for rambling around the peripheries of the Metal terrain. Working through their brace of Ultimate releases, The Werefrogs give the impression that they're concentrating hard without giving two tosses about the consequences of their actions, if you can handle that.

I can certainly handle the manner in which dopey singer Mark wanders around the crowd, rubbing his guitar against the speakers like a cat goosing its gonads on a chair leg. Fluffy, lovey.

Although not as fluffy as Suede, fur bristling with the knowledge that Morrissey is moping among the intrigued throng. All bad clothes and lank hair, the foursome provide a fulsome reappraisal of the history of muzak in several hip-swivelling minutes, firing through the fashions to create their own instinctive and gloriously idiosyncratic style.

Sure, bits of Blur are floating around, most of them within the vicinity of frighteningly tall Matt Osman and his '60s-frugging basslines. Also, like Blur, Suede flaunt an aura of chaos, a sense of impending collapse embodied by singer Brett Anderson and his wobbly knees.

But Suede take it further, imbuing classic hooklines with a slice of campness and a portion of offhand passion. Neither a lad's band nor a fad's band, Suede are as sexily crumpled as an unmade bed on a Sunday morning, the entire collective gyrating like a scientific implement caught in a coastal storm.

Tonight's performance is rougher than a stoat's stubble, yet still great enough to render my notes completely indecipherable. Again, the (odd)ball hits the back of the net. Suede to go…

Simon Williams

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