Some bands are all about the front man, and in the same way you could remove the Chris from Coldplay but not the Coldplay from Chris, Guillemots are all about Fyfe Dangerfield. Fyfe is an awkward sort, being blessed with the most honest and raw vocal, the crux upon which the Guillemots survive, seems little enough to satisfy or quash the inane natter of tonight’s crowd, but who could blame them?
 
The bodies onstage typify the bohemian style brandished by your local gimps desperate to fit a different mould, there’s the trampy front man, the posh totty double bassist, the MENCAP drummer in a Kaftan  and the inevitable indie axeman, its fucking confusing to look and equally so to listen to. This lack of clarity in their image is transposed to their music, tracks like ‘Rising Tide’ sound limp and foetal in comparison to singles ‘Trains to Brazil’ and ‘Were Here’. But even these have an overwhelming sense of unfinishedness about them. But the frequent flourishes of genius are almost enough to warrant the Guillemots hysteria that’s slowly been shafting the UK.

But is it all a little early? Tonight’s performance confirms our suspicions, they may be ready to bear all on Popworld, but in a live context their lack of material is almost comic. The erratic quality of their songs was less apparent at this years ITC performance, where the gathered witnessed magic in silence, not so tonight as the incessant chatter validates the crowd’s frustration.

Guillemots the apparent saviours of the UK music scene, lauded and applauded by critics as the UKs newest best band have a long way to go, and those who witnessed tonight’s display are delusional thinking it proved anything but their potential o become something special. Resist the temptation to fall in love with this band; they really aren’t ready to shoulder that level of adoration, just yet.

Words / Photos: Daniel Pratley