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It’s the kinda venue that has the faceless steel door and the big fella blocking your way. Candles line your path and you’re met with free Jack Daniels by a troupe of scantily clad ladies. Welcome to the concrete catacomb of The Shunt Vaults. "Under London Bridge" it said, yet you wouldn’t think to take it literally. Suddenly we get where Dickens was coming from. Quality venue and gratis JD aside, apparently, somewhere amidst the maze of alcoves, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club are playing tonight, but firstly there’s something to contend with. Those words that really strike fear into the heart: acoustic set.
Dramatically removed from the belligerently bleary eyed white noise of their previous albums, it’s the country-blues pickings off ‘Howl’ that makes up the bulk of the set. Spartan surroundings of crate-stacks and weathered walls - as well as the bourbon - set the tone as Peter familiarly takes solitary stage for the unassuming ‘Grind My Bones’ and the tender lament of ‘Fault Line’ only to be joined by Robert after a wandering meet-n-greet.
Distinctly Nick Jago-less - his Visa’s playing up again and apparently the guys at Guantanamo can be a tad unreasonable - BRMC lack the relentless intensity associated with the antagonistic snarl of their amped-up shows. Regardless, the sumptuous slow burn of ‘Weight of the World’ sees the Jack seep warmer than usual whilst the lulling ebb ‘n’ flow of ’Too Real’ and the downbeat glimmer of ‘Rifles’ give the room an atmosphere that’s relaxed to the point of content. Or half cut.
An on going battle between freeloading hubbub and competition winning gratification eventually sees the partisan fan cluster prevail. The lively fried-my-little-brains stomp of ‘Aint No Easy Way’ and roaming acoustic workings of ‘Whatever Happened To My Rock ‘N’ Roll’ and ‘Love Burns’ fleetingly kick up the tempo, but for songs more suited to sound tracking impulsive acts of liberation (crowd surfing, political protests, knock n runs etc) they lack the customary BRMC vibrancy and immediacy. There’s still the smoke and soul intensity but where it used to stifle it now swirls.
After being dropped from their label - and, as a result, Nick Jago’s ongoing game of immigrant roulette, you’d think it would galvanise BRMC into finding a plug and attacking everything with renewed vitriol. Not on this evidence. The change of format was a brave one but might be a step too far. Perhaps, then, the band are right in asking: ‘Whatever happened to my rock n roll? (Punk Song)’
