Needless to say, NME gigs oft come fairly loaded with a somewhat blasé attitude and acts that may, or may not endure the dubious media frenzy generated about their haughty self-perceptions, all admired by vapid clientele ruffling unwashed hair throughout whilst expressing vacuous stares about as imposing as Portsmouth Football Club, tonight sipping on absinthe (well, Pastis) cocktails. Quite suitably then, bang on 10, enter stage right: Chapel Club, a London quintet as drab as the rain globules that splatter the pavements of Old Street outside and about as likely to crack this music malarkey as Justin Bieber is to go into his parents’ fridge and mischievously drop every last egg on the ceramic tiles below. From the opening bellows of Surfacing, leader of the pack and resident skinhead Lewis Bowman underlines, quite painstakingly, precisely why this troupe of cliché-harbouring pseudo-doom mongers are little more than yet another poor imitation of White Lies ripping off Interpol ripping off Joy Division. They’ve even roped in White Lies’ tour manager for fuck’s sake. So by the time the lethargic stringed rigidity of O Maybe I veers into view, Chapel Club have already flogged themselves off as grotesque pretenders limply wading towards to the dankest of grim thrones. About as inspiring as Come Dine With Me, they’ll be calling at a local dive near you in the all-too-near future on an upcoming toilet tour. Let’s hope it’s the pinnacle for this dingy junk; even Shoreditch ought spot this brand of self-depreciating dirge. Chapel Club - 'O Maybe I' by east city records
