Photo: Beach House / Facebook
If you thought there had been some kind of hipster apocalypse in London last night you’d be mistaken. Instead of a deadly virus that wipes them out, the streets were cleansed of scenesters by the magnetic pull of Beach House at the Roundhouse. Come on in, everyone’s here.
Beach House have been steadily gathering momentum for over six years now. Over four albums they’ve never really put a foot wrong. It seems only fitting that they mark their success with a show as ambitious in scale and majestic in setting as. On paper it seems like this was the show that Beach House were born to play. Or were they?
Maybe it’s the venue, or maybe it’s the sound – but this isn’t the night for Beach House.
Their subtle waves of dream pop flow beautifully round the arches but as they wash over the swooning crowd, with a predictably powerful effect. But there’s something missing.
On record, listening to Beach House is an intimate and personal experience. But live, tonight, a lot of that intensity and those lovely little idiosyncrasies are lost in space.
Beach House are in no way to blame for this. Clad in black and stood before what seem to be some upturned Ikea beds, Victoria Legrand’s striking presence at the helm from the back of the stage is utterly captivating – and perfectly counterbalanced by musical partner Alex Scally’s menacing rocking.
But ultimately somewhere in the mix everything becomes a blissed-out catatonic haze, occasionally punctuated by the highlights of a soul-chilling rendition of the pretty flawless ‘Zebra’, and the haunting pop splendour of ‘Myth’.
In short, Beach House give everything. It’s just a shame that it’s lost in murky sounds.
You can’t help but feel that while half the crowd are hypnotised, the other half seem nonplussed – or at least too ‘hip to care’.
