Morrissey once penned that “To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.” I know he is talking about a love, great or otherwise, but on this night, those words felt like a comment on the camaraderie that’s forged on euphoric evenings like this one.
The room is half-empty, when I arrive, with pockets of people congregating in small groups. Their bodies, soaked in red, cast no shadows in a room full of incomprehensible noise emanating from animated lips that are eager for entertainment.
There’s a buzz in the air, across a myriad of faces I’ll never have the privilege of knowing, as patrons of all ages patiently line themselves against walls, waiting for the revolution to come, or are politely staking their claim to prime pieces of real estate in rows one to three of the standing area.
Many of them are holding alcoholic beverages, Red Stripe being the popular choice, as they seek liquid courage for sustenance. Every one of them, hoping for a drop of their favourite poison to loosen limbs and distance themselves from ties that are not always visible on what they choose to project.
A dismembered head, of the stuffed animal variety, is standing on top of a mic stand. I think of how judgemental it looks, hanging idly to one side, and of how Fawkes was decapitated so we wouldn’t forget the fifth of November.
Novacub emerge from backstage, their singer dressed in a pink boiler suit, to steady beats and the delivery of vocals that are not afraid to experiment with multiple genres. During their set, I hear elements of Rap, Dance and Rock. In an age where club culture is more desirable, to the masses, than experiencing live music, it’s good to hear such diversity delivered with confidence.
“Boo! To not playing anymore with the LaFontains!” singer Louise Bartle, who also plays drums for Bloc Party, exclaims with a notable tinge of regret. At this point, I’m not yet familiar with the headliner’s, but I do empathise with musicians that find their purpose in life through performing on stage.
Bassist Iona Thomas, who is also a session Harpist for artists like Neneh Cherry and Laura Mvula, has good chemistry with the lead vocalist. I enjoyed watching them join together, centre-stage, to charge each other so their instruments almost collide on multiple occasions. There were also some tender moments, where they proved their togetherness, by one of them placing their head on the other’s shoulder.
All this was backed-up by Venezuelan drummer Tony Alda, who hit so hard at times that he was temporarily lifted off his stool, and Russell Lissack on Lead Guitar.
In the crowd, a group of friends catch my eye. All of them are young, with sticker’s on their breast’s or forehead’s, and have an awkwardness to their shape throwing that suggests they’ve not yet reached sufficient levels of intoxication. I love their lack of inhibition, though, which quickly helps them escalate from leg lifting to finger-pointing in an ever-increasing circle of respect.
Back on stage, Brexit comes up as a topic for mirth during a protest song partly sung through a pink megaphone. “We’re Novacub not Club!” shouts the singer. “Thanks for being so lovely!”
Ambivalent lights, that were left on full during changeover, suddenly dim to nothing as Gala’s ‘Freed From Desire’ tempers a shroud of darkness that has overtaken us. A loud chorus of “The La! The La! The LaFontains!” starts up and everyone around me is thrown into an aural tussle for supremacy with the Italian songstress.
Kerr Okan, the headliner’s lead vocalist, breaks up my thoughts of nineties nostalgia by striding onstage with a request for us to put our arms up. To my surprise, we’re compliant. For me, it’s early evidence of an act who undoubtedly know how to control their audience.
From my position, stage left, facing the crowd I can see sparks of anticipation firing in the pupils of countless pairs of eyes that are all trained on a strikingly confident singer, throwing out passionate lyrics with cocky aplomb, who is so close to his adoring fans that they could touch him if they wished.
I notice a couple of women, standing immediately beneath the Scottish rapper, being forced to arc their necks backwards so they can see him above waist level. I laugh, to myself, but it’s clear that this kind of proximity is what feeds familiarity and keeps people invested in keeping them solvent.
If I’d been on photography duty, Oslo’s lighting decisions would have frustrated me, but words were all that mattered in Hackney. For once, I think they actually played an important role in the theatre of The LaFontains performance. From full exposure, darkness, or a fusion of red, white and blue, it added razzmatazz to our evening.
The crowd starts chanting again, between songs, much to Kerr’s obvious pleasure: “Good to see you know how to say it now! Instead of Fontains, Fontains… Fontains!”
Four or five friends, who danced throughout Novacub’s set, are still giving their all just a short distance away from me. Suddenly, one of them lurches forward, to get the attention of The LaFontains’ drummer. Jamie Keenan, who is clearly a fan favourite, hears his name being called and immediately offers a warm handshake.
Soon after, Kerr Okan starts playfully vocalising fake discontent about why his percussionist is thought so fondly of and questions whether it’s because he shares cigarettes with everyone prior to their shows. The singer then continues feigning hurt feelings, which includes telling us the other members of the band have feelings too, which prompts a loud retort of “Darren! Darren! Darren!” in honour of lead guitarist Darren McCaughey.
I enjoyed the banter, that was evident all night, because it made them seem so personable. Almost like they were archetypes of people already in our lives and not just temporary comrades for thirty minutes plus encore.
I’ve noticed a recent trend where audiences are encouraged to crouch, or sit down, on the floor and leap back to their feet at a musician’s behest. It’s an interesting experiment, in compliance, because no one wants to appear insubordinate. I have no such qualms, though, because I’m here to gather intelligence for Original Rock.
The wait is short, from ground to airborne, because within a matter of seconds we’re taken down to rise again as though baptised. Anyone who had been fading, or struggling for breath, suddenly found themselves revitalised. I notice a couple of people, who’d only previously been nodding their heads, throw themselves fearlessly into an inebriated pit.
At this point, Kerr leaps from the stage to get in amongst his adoring flock. They part, briefly, to let him through and then quickly close behind him. Everyone turns, to watch as he’s encircled by bodies whose hearts have been won over by many nights like this one. I guess if you want to know why they’re held in such high esteem, by so many, you should ask the woman who held up three fingers to indicate how many copies of The LaFontains’ albums she’s purchased.
As things begin to wind down, owing to an impending curfew, two of my favourite moments of the evening happen. The first occurred when every single person in Oslo held their mobile phones aloft, for an entire song, to impersonate lighters, without breaking any health and safety rules, while the latter took place when a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels was passed around the crowd and returned without anyone being too gluttonous.
Personally, I don’t think I’ve witnessed such an impressive live spectacle in a long time. Although their music wasn’t specifically to my taste, their control of proceedings was something special to behold. If you like your Rock served with a bit of Rap or Hip-Hop, do check these guys out.
Written by Lisa Knight