Photo: James Arnold
There are few less enjoyable ways to start a gig than being told by a host to scream as loud as you can, because Keane's fans were loud the previous night and it would be very uncool to be quieter. There are also a minute number of propositions more annoying than being told by giant advertising screens to tune into a radio station to relive the show you have yet to live. Yet this is how Bloc Party enter the stage. From then on, the only infuriating thing is how fast the time passes.
Before there's really chance to settle down, it's over. Two encores, one extremely long and another tremendously memorable, sail past. It's all in the timing. The band have, unlike on their last two albums, captured the live knack of structuring a set so that it never settles on a theme or a mood other than progression. This is done through specifics, such as playing new track/old track/older track, but is more noticeable in the subtleties of numbers. Song For Clay has been twisted into a behemoth of an anthem, Kele revelling in having it's bookish intro boomed back at him, before an ear-singeing riff finds itself in unaccustomed surroundings, having been crafted with stadiums in mind. But before its resonance can settle, it revolves into Banquet, a frenzy of clashing simplicity that makes up for lack of freshness through sheer tactless immediacy.
It’s the slower songs that insist on awareness though, no longer sounding buried in between Prayers and Positive Tensions, allowed to build and roam as intended. The gig sold out in five minutes, it's full of super-fans and if the group feel like playing an extended sitar solo it would probably go down a storm. This allows bassist Gordon, back in the fold after missing the summer's festivals, to settle on a xylophone for a while and Russell to toss about with his guitar pedals like a kid in Toys R Us without removing any element of enjoyment or purpose from the set. Signs' delivery is affecting, not cringe-worthy in the flesh, and This Modern Love another strident stroll of emotive relief, setting the tone for So Here We Are. Still a breathless moment, the ode to nothing thrills and cajoles, its measured release far more exhilarating than the more direct delectation of Mercury and Hunting For Witches.
Still playful despite the edginess their sound creates and demands, Matt is animated and shirtless on drums, while Kele even allows his audience to choose the final song – Skeletons – by throwing the mic into the crowd. The house lights are already up when they play the cult favourite, but it works nonetheless. Beforehand, Helicopter closes the first encore, almost an afterthought now. They still do indie guitar hits better than most of the charts, but appear past noticing. Splitting the attention between reflex reaction songs to bounce about to and acute moments to cling to, minutes ebb and flow with conclusions brilliantly unresolved. Maybe if, as the big screens still beseech, the gig is listened back to on the radio, a completely different reaction from the same set could be garnered. It's easy to take whatever you want from this, which is affirmation that Bloc Party can take this wherever they want.
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