Les Savy Fav / Future of the Left / Los Campesinos – Astoria, London - 10/02/08

The thought that perhaps the NME tag attached to tonight's sterling line up is a sign of the magazine's re-emergence from the tar pit of 'Killers frontman finds lizard in hotel room' desperation is soon dismissed – the large posters of Tom from the Enemy and ads for hair care products liberally scattering the walls see to that.


Gareth Campesinos! is not convinced either. 'Nice to see the DJ thought Les Savy Fav fans would appreciate Hard-Fi and Coldplay in between sets,' he mutters, as the band launch into a beefed up version of Death to Los Campesinos! On record, Los Campesinos can sometimes seem a little thin, a little frail – a dangerous game to play when you walk the precarious tightrope of tweepop; one false move and you end up more 'I'm a little teapot' than 'If You're Feeling Sinister'. Live, however, they are a different, more heavyweight prospect, and Gareth's Morrissey-esque presence – eyes raised to the ceiling, one arm wrapping the mic lead around the other – lends tracks like And We Exhale and Roll Our Eyes in Unison an unexpectedly epic quality.


Fellow Cardiff compatriots Future of the Left don't do tightropes. Or, if they do, they're made of Albini-approved sheet metal. Coming on like a cataclysmic collision between Shellac's bitter and twisted face-grating treble and late-80's Fall space invader keyboard, FOTL's set sends a seismic wave through the Astoria, and not only because it's so unbelievably loud. New single Manchasm and The Lord Hates a Coward spatter aural kerosene across the venue, until a truly apocalyptic version of Small Bones Small Bodies finally lights the match that sends the whole set up in flames. In this context, the closing comment of 'It's a real honour, us playing with Les Savy Fav…for them' from bassist Kelson Mathias seems less caustic than, frankly, accurate.


But, of course, this is Les Savy Fav we're talking about, aka The Greatest Live Band, like, Ever. Thankfully, the prospect of NME reaching for their coat-tails ten years after everybody else does not seem to have dampened their eccentric genius, and from the moment Tim Harrington bounds out in a Phantom of the Opera mask and the band clatter into What Would Wolves Do? all fears of a diluted populism are allayed. We are blessed with just the four costume changes tonight – a be-winged angel a particular highlight – but as the 'hits' flash by (The Sweat Descends, We'll Make a Lover of You, Reprobate's Resume) and Harrington does his customary 'wipe my belly all over the audience' thing, the recollection of just how damn special this band are is difficult to ignore.

It must be said that some of the newer material does sag a little, perhaps not quite reaching their previous heights. But, as they climax the set with a raging take on Debaser that utterly eclipses the original, this twinge of dissent is all but eradicated - the overwhelming feeling that remains is one of relief and joy that they are still here, still uncompromisingly brilliant, still untainted by this sudden mainstream appreciation.