CityLife

Razorlight

IN the Apollo, someone brandishes a cardboard cutout of Johnny Borrell.

Try as you might, the majority of you are probably unable to resist quipping: 'I bet it's less two-dimensional than the real thing!'.

For J-Bo seems to have racked up more than his fair share of detractors.

Reviewing Razorlight's third album, Slipway Fires - sonically, their best work yet -  the NME suggested that his ghetto-vaulting ambition had left his eyes blanker than Jonathan Ross's work schedule, while Facebook groups devoted to his demolition say that he's an 'obnoxious, egotistical and talentless!'.

And that's one of the more charitable descriptions.

Quite what he's done to inspire such opprobrium is moot. Admittedly, his lyrics mark him out as the 21st century, indie William McGonagall, with gems including 'I met a girl/She asked me my name/I told her what it was' (from ‘Somewhere Else’) and 'I go out somewhere/Then I come home again' (America); all delivered with curly-haired, straight-faced conviction.

Or She 'she lives on Disillusion Row', from brave chorus-free gospel ballad, Wire To Wire, which causes most sane people to veer down Chuckles Cul-De-Sac.

Yet despite the derision, there's no denying he has an ear for a great pop song.

Preposterous

Tonight's gig begins with a preposterous piece of stagecraft.

After blistering renditions of the likes of Golden Touch and the Bowie-apeing In The Morning, roadies dressed as removal men arrive to clear and sweep the stage, before the red velvet curtain falls to reveal a drum riser, mirrored panels, and a non-ironic 'RAZORLIGHT' spells out in flashing lightbulbs above their heads.

Like Live 8 - the thunderclap moment when the quartet went from indie chancers to bodafide stars - it's further proof the group are destined for, and work best in, hanger-like arena with hotdog stalls.

Propulsive

Aided by the undervalued Andy Burrow's propulsive drumming, early Liberteenybopper tracks such as Don't Go Back To Dalston and Stumble and Fall are delivered with a taunt, prowling intensity, while the panoramic power-ballad America - heralded by its plaintive Time After Time-esque intro and thrown out early on in the set - elicits a feverish reaction.

Having swapped his bare chest-and-white-jeans combo for a velvet jacket and shirt seemingly purloined from Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, Borell is a captivating frontman, his arms flailing around like a particularly zealous Give Us A Clue contestant.

Indeed, during the glam pub-rock knockabout Burberry Blue Eyes, you half-expect Una Stubbs to trot onstage and enquire 'is the answer Opportunity Knocks?'.

As the crowd pump their fists ecstatically to Rip It Up, you suddenly realise that Razorlight have turned into the headlining band Borell was always convinced they were.

Do you agree with Gary's review? Have your say.

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