Becoming continually more ubiquitous in London gig listings by the week, tonight is the turn of the Borderline. Situated a stone's throw away from the Pillars of Hercules, a certain someone stage-right must feel forever more as though he's carting the future of the British music industry on his lofty shoulders just as Hercules himself once lugged herds of cattle over land and sea of antiquity. At six foot, several inches his head is far closer to the clouds than most of his contemporaries, yet it seems as though his feet are firmly rooted to the ground. Playing as part of the sophomore HMV Next Big Thing, he instantaneously acknowledges the inherent burden of such a title, mumbling "wow. HMV Next Big Thing. No pressure..."
He is of course
James Blake and tonight validates his every case as the personification of the future of our contemporary musical export. Where previous
shows have been lauded as much for the silent suspense that fills every moment of musical stillness as for the Enfield boy's enigmatic balladry, tonight the Borderline is rowdier than it's been since Crystal Antlers slaughtered the venue alongside Banjo Or Freakout in 2009, as camera flash recoils and clicks and ironic shhs permeate the anticipated and celebrated hush. Half the audience seems intent on filling such gaps, whilst the other appears to now idolise Blake as they'd respect a Latymer prefect, having evidently been similarly educated at a certain institution in Edmonton. We've all pored over Blake pouring his heart out either in the form of vaguely ambiguous "post-dubstep" or off-kilter balladry, but it's in the live setting, amidst sweat and San Miguel, that Blake oozes unadulterated brilliance. Opening with Unluck, constructed of samples sounding like a synth scrapheap and electronic drumkit clicks, Blake exudes awkwardness, intermittently sipping tea as his gangly digits quiver and glide over his scarlet Nord and Prophet 08, its chrome dials glistening in crimson spotlight. Give Me My Month, a solo rendition from Blake showcases his spectral vocal capabilities over a harrowing piano accompaniment and sends shivers through the sold out crowd as he shudders onstage. It's a blink, or at least go-to-the-bar-and-you'll-miss-it sort of show with Lindisfarne eluded, despite its appearance on tonight's snippet of a setlist, yet the looped, lulling delirium of I Never Learnt To Share, impeccably reconstituted entirely live, overly compensates for an induced lack of vocoder. Meanwhile set closer and indisputable highlight The Wilhelm Scream, undulating bottom-end guitars ghosting wondrously throughout, proposes Blake's desire to drift away from the omnipresent airplay of that cover. It's been an absolute privilege to witness the brightest spark this side of the M25 in the intimate setting provided by the Borderline as it won't be all that long before even his tickets are too hot to handle.
