The Lemonheads aren't of course here to send us all stampeding possessedly in the direction of the starkly, artificially illuminated merch stand at the back of this once-characterful venue to then tear glinting cellophane from the smoothed back of a new record upon falling through the doors of flats, homes, and hovels later on in the evening. That's not the point (for conclusive evidence of this attempt to stick out the wilfully upbeat, overly polished slump of 2006's self-titled or the lethargic Varshons LP that followed. Hardly had your cold, hard cash burning holes in your slacks now, did they?), and nor is it the appeal. For Dando, as irksomely irresistible as ever, is an inamorato of all in attendance seemingly never to have aged a day during his sojourn beneath stars, stripes, and spotlights. He's a man of another era, an era that retrospectively glistens like gold amidst the gossamer-coated cubbyholes and hideaways of nostalgic longing within the darkest caverns of the temporal lobes. Tonight we hark back to this glorious age and Dando, scorching torchlight in hand, knapsack of fogged memories slung over shoulder, is our bedraggled, reliably irresponsible guide.
Aptly a wash of emerald descends during a perfectly befuddling My Drug Buddy, and what feels like mere moments later we're all flicking through proverbial songbooks to a page plastered in the notes and intricate lyrical nuances of Frank Mills, before Dando diffidently murmurs: "And that's it." It's an inconceivably consummate record, tonight (as per), delivered with the most consummate ease although somewhat ludicrously, it then becomes a tale of two halves and indeed two records when one would have indisputably sufficed in all but running time. A slapdash mosey through a selection of greatest hits (plus a cover of Victoria Williams' Frying Pan) backed by captured gazes from the windows of trains, planes, and automobiles follows during which Dando ambles acoustically when solo and gallivants ever so slightly turgidly when backed by his binary rhythm section. While the likes of The Great Big No, Down About It, The Outdoor Type, and a typically stirring, stripped back, and again audience-unifying Big Gay Heart even now represent halcyon pop rock numbers, the incongruousness of this particular tale ensures it never quite staggers to the soaring heights of its precursor, the warm, hazy joy of the trip turning to soured longing for the great welcoming known or perhaps for the sobering December chill that awaits outside. For this predecessor, (aka It's A Shame About Ray) feels like a still-intoxicating, inebriated stumble down memory lane with all vision all but obfuscated by unkempt clumps of hair as untied laces trickle along the boardwalk. We can, could, and should cut the man some slack therefore.
