The Last Shadow Puppets
New Theatre, Oxford
As 'The age of the Understatement', the cri de coeur from the Last Shadow Puppets' album, thunders to a close, Alex Turner surveys this all-seated theatre with pleasure and some discomfort. 'No one's gonna tell you off if you stand up,' he mutters.
Red velour curtains frame the band he shares with erstwhile Rascal Miles Kane; a 16-piece orchestra are lined up behind them. Their music is unapologetically lush, struck through with a nostalgia for the dusty glamour that these 22-year-olds have absorbed largely through the records of Scott Walker. From Kane's polo neck to the dark suits of the players, sophistication hangs in the air. And yet, Turner - singer in the Arctic Monkeys, Britain's premier indie rock bucks - can't quite shake the belief that sitting on their bottoms is not what his audiences do. If this were a Monkeys gig, perhaps even a Rascals gig, there would be bits of crowd-surfer pointing every which way.
Undeterred, the Puppets ease into 'Black Plant' with a bit of stately brass. This is only the second gig of their orchestra tour - their sixth ever, if we are counting two brief shows in New York last March, an unnanounced set in London last April, and their secret Glastonbury appearance with Jack White - and this lofty new milieu clearly takes some getting used to. 'Are you feeling uncomfortable?' Turner asks his doppelganger Kane at one point. 'I'm quite into it... feeling uncomfortable.'
This process of adjustment is reflected in the music. Although the London Metropolitan Orchestra add some solemnity and pomp, mostly, the strings are whipped into a lather by the incessant gallop of James Ford, the super-producer of hit Arctic Monkeys and Klaxons records now slumming it elegantly on drums. The intensity is invigorating, but it eclipses the subtleties you would have hoped for from these shows. 'Only the Truth' opens with dramatic string stabs and races to a waltzed conclusion, one of the few rearrangements tonight.
'Separate and Ever Deadly' may be wreathed in icy strings, but it is a dead ringer for the Arctic Monkeys' fast and furious 'Brianstorm'. Every so often, a slower song breaks up the pace slightly, but the idea of ice tinkling in tumblers while Alex Turner tells an anecdote at the piano is not the sort of scenario the Last Shadow Puppets had in mind.
As they play 'Hang the Cyst', a newish Kane-led B-side full of riffs and drama, they stop abruptly. A fan is leaving, complaining about the 'cockheads' who object to him standing. The whole of the stalls rises in solidarity. The band pick up again without missing a beat.
The musicianship on show is impressive, given the breadth of what they are attempting, with Kane coaxing succinct mewls out of his semi-acoustic and Turner strumming a series of acoustics. When the lights are low, you can barely tell who is singing, so close are their voices. Considering their distinct accents (Turner's is Sheffield and Kane is from the Wirral), this is quite a feat. If Turner hadn't opted for a burgundy V-neck jumper, it would be hard to tell the two apart. At the very end, Kane rumples Turner's hair fondly as they leave the stage.
As well as most of their Mercury-nominated debut, the Shadow Puppets unveil a handful of cover versions, the source material for their side-project. 'In the Heat of the Morning' is a David Bowie song, dating from his Scott Walker-ish period.
'Little Red Book' - by Burt Bacharach, via Love, another deep well from which the Last Shadow Puppets draw - stands out, sounding implausibly skiffle-y. Because they're feeling 'open', Turner and Kane throw in a version of Lee & Nancy's 'Paris Summer' that somehow contrives to sound rather like 'Paint It Black' by the Rolling Stones.
Towards the end of their one-hour set, Puppets and players arrive at a sweeter place. 'I Don't Like You Any More' alternates speed and breathers, but ends with considerable elegance, generated mostly by keyboard player John Ashton. Even better is 'The Meeting Place', a rich seam of Merseydelia in which it seems like new parts have been written for a fidget of strings and muted horns. They never quite locate the perfect compromise between rock urgency and smoky sophistication, but the search is conducted eloquently none the less.
