If this were a meritocracy, the closest Stereophonics would ever get to a stadium stage would be row W. The question of them playing, let alone headlining, such places would never arise, because the attributes claimed for them by fans - that they are "hard working" and "unpretentious" - would count for little against the qualities they lack, namely genius and inspiration. Yet they are on their way to selling out mega-gigs at Donington and Chepstow racecourses in July, and this show, at the 1,200-capacity Empire, is deemed an intimate warm-up.
Saying that, the Welsh threesome make an evening pass more quickly than you'd expect. Kelly Jones, the pretty singer/writer, has mastered the craft of the fat, singalong anthem, and belts them with the fire of a Valleys Axl Rose. By the end of the opening, Mr Writer (theme: rock critics are friendless saddos), he has broken into a sweat. By the time he has thrashed the life out of another couple of songs from the new album, Just Enough Education to Perform, his voice is frayed, spurring him to greater heights of rasping. Behind him, Stuart Cable half-rises, curly mop quivering, to hit his drums with greater force. If exertion equalled record sales, Stereophonics would have more platinum discs than Elvis.
A surprising number of tunes are so familiar that Jones doesn't bother to introduce them. The first buzzing chords of Pick a Part That's New and I Wouldn't Believe Your Radio (theme: pop is rubbish, except ours) are all it takes to induce slam-dancing in the balconies. And justifiably: the songs may be as unsexy as the E Street Band without Springsteen but they rock, like it says on the tin. Jones even manages to make an acoustic interval sound beefy.
Emboldened, he tries a bit of wit, dedicating the improbable "lesbian" anthem The Bartender and the Thief to the Welsh-bashing Anne Robinson. That "lesbian" still passes for abuse in their part of the world tells you all you need to know about Stereophonics. Small wonder they play on a bare stage with no fripperies but a backdrop and a touch of strobe lighting. Anything fancier, any attempt to deviate from their menu of catchy bar-room rock, might imply that Kelly and the boys were . . . well . . . you know.
Don't hold your breath for the ambient bhangra album.
