‘Oh, I’ve been waiting a long time…’
A reunion, a revisiting, a revival: whatever you want, you can pretty much have. Four men on the wrong / right side of 50, plus the perennially cool Mick Talbot emerge blinking but defiant. There’s no new LP to plug, no biography - you can’t even call it payola like that recent Pistols charade. Above all, the songs are what matter and, my goodness, the quality and depth is scrawled all over the stage in blood, sweat and all of the years gone by since the mid-1990’s.
I remember those times, as an erstwhile 20 something in London, a suburban mover who embraced the live scene, experiencing Gene a couple of times in their so-called heyday. They were a bit modish, minor indie bedfellows and composers of small town anthems wedded to overwhelmed lyricism, laced with romanticism and the liquor from broken bottles left over after drunken revelries. There was something special, something unique to be celebrated and adored. I listened to Olympian incessantly, fell in love with - and to the strains of - its title song, alongside the intense balladry of Jeff Buckley, American Music Club and others.
Could Gene replicate that energy? Yes, with emotional depth, layering and heartwarming sincerity. Sure, Martin Rossiter has slowed down a bit, is less frenetic but the commitment, the soul is there, beating hard against the dying of the light. 30 years on from ‘Be My Guide…’, ‘London Can you Wait?’ and ‘We Could be Kings’, is there still room for their brand of heart on the sleeve, careworn yet hopeful? Umm, yes. Believe it.
This series of gigs started in Leeds last Autumn and will end with a two night residency at London’s Roundhouse this October. I attended the first London gig and it felt as though Martin was consumed by nerves and an eagerness to please. splendid performance but something was missing - maybe the fact that I was in the seating area… This evening was standing only - for me, at least - and a solo flight. Three rows back from the crash barrier, anticipation hanging in the air, as vapour, surrounding the assembled like a warm hug.
Hit after hit, after confessional, after wry sun-stunned beauty, after raised hands in supplication, after worshipping at the altar of the riff, the piano trill, the rambunctious drum fill, after precise yet emotive guitar solos, after ‘deep cuts’, solo excursions, acoustic loveliness [‘Long Sleeves for the Summer’], emotional resonance and ceiling-lifting choruses, three encores and the exquisite coda of ‘Sleep Well Tonight’, a sort of rapture is achieved. Hoarse hollering for more, knowing we’ll receive another dose to the heart, head and solar plexus.
Close to two hours later, the righteous, teary-eyed assembly of souls emerged into Bristol’s buzzing night sky, awash with multi-coloured lights and fierce memories, once more. All will sleep well and wake up, renewed, refreshed - a little reborn.
‘So, take me home, driver - make me more wise…’
