Two comics, two Russells, two wacky, cheeky bastards who wish
their surname was Brand.
They’re not even worthy of a space each on the list and if loveable mole-witha-gag Michael McIntyre was on here too (which is now is), he’d
not be getting his own spot either.
If you were to make all three observation comedians (“Buses. What are they all about?” etc.) Kane
fight to the death though, it’s Kane that I’d most like to see meet the reaper due to his motor-mouth,
third-rate Russell Brand impression that isn’t even worthy of the I’m A Celebrity… tripe spinoff he co-hosts. Jack Whitehall; chuck him in there too.
his dancing bringing un-intended visceral humour to an
otherwise static show.
Like a light jog, little flutters the heart as each song segues into the next.
A level of decency remains though, and Trophy Wife can still write a killer
– ‘Microlite’ dances off the stage with sparkling vibrancy.
Still, it’s easy to see them propping up the bar of mediocrity for some time if
they don’t find variation to add to their delicate glow.
The band themselves admit to playing ‘ambitionless office disco’ and you
can imagine them sound-tracking your boss’ drive to work or
filtering out of the tinny radio for the fifth time in a day.
perfectly refrained and compliments their shoe-gaze inspired melodies. On
one hand, tonight’s performance is lacklustre, void of real presence and
blatant onstage charisma.
On the other Beach House have no need to be full blown.
Sometimes it’s better to take the foot off the pedal and let the songs glide by in a controlled, delicate manner.
Tonight is one of those times.
something of a shame.
Two of the new tracks particularly suggest that Plug have
galloped on with good cause,
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