1883 Sunday Sessions – review
Cargo is hardly my favourite place for a night out: a door charge of £10, a £20 card limit at the bar after 10pm, and most drinks pushing £5 make it hard to have fun there, and I’m scared to ask for tap water in case they charge me. But it is a great space, and it has one major plus point as a live music venue: their sound system sounds incredible.
As I walk in to the 1883 Sunday Sessions (29 July), Stray Dogs are on stage. Their suits and haircuts are razor-sharp, and even their guitars look like they’ve felt the benefit of some careful dusting and a can of Mr. Sheen.
I always think of bands like this as being descendents of The Jam; emotional in a masculine way, well groomed, earnest but not too much, and with a commitment to playing proper songs on proper instruments well, without relying on any samples or laptops, as a matter of pride.
As they lock into the three-guitar wail of set highlight Perfect Night, the band shows that they are capable of pulling off some special moments, but even in the thickest onslaught of guitar, they seem as if they aren’t quite reaching their full potential; they aren’t quite hitting hard enough.
They’re early on this admittedly mixed bill, and the room is about half-full, so it could well be nerves. Sometimes it just doesn’t happen, the chemistry’s not right. But they seem like a band with big things to do, and on a night when they hit their stride I imagine they’re electric.
There are a few unprofessional things in the setup of the venue. For example, the cases, bags and instruments that take up half of the standing room in front of the stage, and distracting projections behind the bands of other bands playing sessions for 1883.
No matter how good it is for branding, it kind of defeats the entire point of having live bands play if you’re going to project video of other bands behind them! But these are, I guess, teething problems for this new Sunday gig.
I watch the next band, Will and The People, run through their line check with a rising feeling of dread. I’ll come clean here: I am sick to the fucking stomach of watching vaguely hippy white boys play reggae.
No matter how dirty their trainers are, they always look clean. The Jamaican-inflected “hey-ey-ey-ey”, “oooh-ooh-ooh-ooh” and even “coo-coo-coo” sounds they make to test their mics do little to dispel my fears, and neither does the uniform of tie-dye, plaid, or other “ethnic fabric” shirts they’re wearing.
But, once they start playing, they are undeniably good. Reggae is easy music to be average at, but it’s incredibly hard to really play well.
The band are technically proficient, and not just in other people’s techniques, with everyone sprinkling some gorgeous multi-part backing harmonies around Will’s supple vocal.
As this is, to all intents and purposes, a reggae band, they play the traditional vaguely-political song, which comes off a bit patronising and cliche (Sample lyric: “my friend he’s called Natty / he sleeps on the streets … I wish his parents had given a shit”. Jesus.), two soppy but heartfelt love songs, one of which, Masterpiece, is genuinely lovely, and three songs about weed.
They even do a cover of Bob Marley’s Concrete Jungle, the irony of playing which at Cargo seems to be lost on everyone, and they absolutely play the shit out of it.
With a few more great songs in their set to capitalise on their skill and chemistry, they will be a formidable live band. They’re easily the best performers of the night; they own the stage.
Other highlights include a medley of Ibiza club tunes in a reggae style, which must go down pretty well at festivals, and their van, which is parked outside, and decorated with a full-side portrait of a stoned hippy. Apparently these guys are getting pretty big in Holland, and there’s every chance you’ll hear Masterpiece on the radio at some point.
Three guys wrapped in Union Jacks have been running round the venue for most of the night chanting “TEAM GB!” and are probably having the most fun of anyone in Shoreditch tonight.
And they turn out to also be loyal fans of Cave Painting, a band who have been picking up a fair amount of buzz recently on music blogs. The singer has a nice falsetto, and it is nicely supported washes of guitar and synth, which sometimes verge dangerously on becoming cloudy.
But the real highlight for me is the drummer. Somehow he manages to find new accents in old grooves, when he isn’t redefining the beat altogether. His style is precise and minimalist, and he’s a joy to watch.
The band creates a soundscape in each song, like a cresting wave that never quite breaks. And sometimes you wish it would break. Although there is something admirable in their restraint, when they finally unleash hell on their set closer, it’s a genuinely cathartic moment. Their set could probably just do with a few more.
Anyway, 1883 Sunday Sessions seems like it’ll be a good night, with six great bands and acoustic artists for a tenner. Try and catch the next one.