The 100 Club heaves with the weight of seismic musical history plastered on its walls. A young Johnny Rotten, frozen mid-sneer, watches over a stage that bears witness to countless legendary acts who’ve sweated over and sworn at adoring crowds. Tonight, Gramotones and The Moons slope in the dirt-encrusted boots of those canonical acts, determined to add their names to the club’s glittering alumni.
You’d be forgiven for thinking you’d seen Oldham four-piece Gramotones somewhere before. Complete with feather cuts, scraggy jeans and general air of insouciance, they resemble every indie band that emerged in the wake of The Libertines’ initial demise. Musically, however, they enjoy a commanding relationship with their instruments that helps them to partially stand apart from the exhausted guitar-bass-drum axis many of their contemporaries stick rigidly to. Impressive lead guitarist and multi-instrumentalist Jake Fletcher glides from harmonica to keyboard with swaggering aplomb, conducting the set according to his will. At their most exciting, the songs sizzle with the lascivious, countrified pulse of The Stones, the neurotic fizz of early Who and the bite of The Jam.
The beautifully crafted ‘Soldier’s Kiss’ earns cheers and spilt beers from a crowd tantalised by a delectable melody. Unfortunately their versatility gives them their biggest strength and weakness: a lack of direction. As much as that might sound like they’re in keeping with the unpredictability rock and roll is meant to embody, they collate their canonical influences without managing to stamp their own individual sound on them. Undeniably, they are a tight musical unit, but they cannot reconcile their influences into one coherent package that distinguishes them from other bands. They clearly look like they’re enjoying themselves, effortless self-deprecation and cheeky north-south banter endearing them to a receptive audience, but they suffer the same problems other bands I have seen time and time again suffer from.
Firstly, the lyrics are completely indecipherable, most of the words getting lost in the barrage of noise meaning that if they have anything worthwhile to say politically or otherwise, it goes unheard. Secondly, and perhaps fatally, they lack the pivotal groove deities like The Stone Roses and The Verve knew guitar-led bands needed to possess the consciences and hips of floating fans. At the very least, Gramotones, with their affable name that evokes images of a cosy vinyl record shop, will soundtrack a quirky sitcom near you. If, however, they don’t reimagine the past in a way that they can call their own, they will be consigned to the also-rans bin, no matter how confident they are.
The Moons stride assuredly on stage, at ease in a club they know they are capable of pleasing. Since their inception in 2008, the four-piece, helmed by Paul Weller’s talented keyboardist Andy Crofts, has unashamedly remoulded the sounds of the sixties and seventies for modern crowds, drawing their own inimitable ideas from their heroes of the past. From 2010’s sublime debut Life on Earth to 2014’s organ drenched, rhythm infused Mindwaves, the formula has remained consistent: a bit of sixties psychedelia here, a dash of glam rock there, all delivered in traditional rock and roll song structures.
They surpass the green Gramotones on the melodies battlefront, which sound simultaneously brash and polished, the band’s pithy pop nuggets maintaining an attractive edge. Opening with the deliriously optimistic ‘Forever Came Today’, a prime cut from 2012’s Fables of History, they instantly grip the crowd with their accomplished musicianship and irresistible nod to The Small Faces. As the irrepressible ‘Revolutionary Lovers’ follows, it’s apparent to the uninitiated that this is not a band interested in mashing together Gregorian chanting with death metal in the name of being interesting or ‘progressive.’ Set highlight ‘Promise Not to Tell’ combines rolling drums with lyrics of whispered intrigue and deceit, acting as the bouncy ‘Chinese Whispers’s’ duskier antagonist. ‘Jennifer (Sits Alone), a gently strummed Kinksian hymn, is The Moons staring wide-eyed at the world, declaring their mantra through the cipher of a fey girl.
‘Body Snatchers’ wraps a loveably daft house of horrors organ around infectious ‘whoah-ohs!’, its frazzled guitar and bass displaying moodier textures. Regrettably, there’s no ‘Nightmare Day’, a hybrid of David Bowie’s ‘Let’s Dance’ with Specials-esque ska, which remains the best example of the band’s ability to successfully fuse different influences in a way that doesn’t relegate them to a tribute act. Resuming for the encore amid rapturous applause, the band launch into the languid ‘English Summer’, another Kinksian pastiche that lacks the surgical cut of Ray Davies’s social commentary, but nonetheless conjures up a montage of surreal and quotidian images that warm the senses. Leaving triumphantly to the sound of boozy approbation, the band grin appreciatively, their songs having made the crowd reach for air guitars and irritatingly take selfies at the most inopportune moments.
What The Moons do, they do very well. They have a committed base of fans and a thorough knowledge of what’s gone before them. In this world of 57/83 time signatures, horrid Bastille type ‘indie’ and Bullingdon-baiting frat folk, it’s great to have a band willing to repackage sixties and seventies touchpoints for a new generation. The Moons don’t just act as a portal to other influences, they carve out a space as contemporary ambassadors for traditional songwriting, accessible melodies and catchy guitar-pop that will remain immortal.
Some of the coverage you find on Cultured Vultures contains affiliate links, which provide us with small commissions based on purchases made from visiting our site. We cover gaming news, movie reviews, wrestling and much more.
