There’s a romanticism about the gathering of a clan to see their musical heroes and happily enough a romantic heart to Mogwai’s music also. Across the board. Despite the ability to really let fly when the mood takes – and they certainly do that tonight – there’s a gentle, bucolic tinge to the often introspective melodies. Albeit flavoured with the permanent threat of dissolving into pretty tasty madness.
Not quite so lyrical is the contraband incident that is the first event of a curious yet satisfying evening. Becoming a habit turning up to gigs with verboten nick-nacks. Most recent was a bag containing bicycle tools. Tools that in retrospect were clearly offensive weapons but still. One moaned as they were whisked off to the security box.
This time brings a new addition to the disallowed. Cashews nuts, kids… just say no. I’m given a few seconds to scoff as much as I can before dolefully watching the buggers get launched into the bin. Revenge – and calories – is mine however. A quick phone call and a surreptitious handover of a class A Twix at the smoking area is arranged. Cloak and dagger stuff. And the crappest drug deal in history is complete.
Still, at least it means I’m relatively alive for this triumphant home town gig. Celebrating twenty years in the biz, Mogwai play for nigh on two hours to a packed and devoted Barrowlands. Perhaps too devoted in some ways?
For such an occasion the crowd is perplexingly, well, not mental. Plenty of quacks and cheers obviously but the legendary venue has surely seen more raucous bacchanalian madness. Comes with the territory perhaps when people are so desperate to see a band rightly held in such high esteem.
Coupled with the delicious austerity of early parts of the set – ironically part of tonight is dedicated to attendees of the previous day’s anti-austerity march – the effect is that though it is excellent, it all adds up to the sum of its parts. I expected them to be very good…and they were. They lived up to expectations. No more no less.
The two songs that do really transcend are ‘Mexican Grand Prix’ which is absolutely thumping and shows their spectacular grasp of electronics as well as buggering about with guitars and (epically long closer to the main body of the set) ‘My Father, My King’. The latter builds from insistent, discordant beginnings to a cataclysmic cacophony very nearly approaching My Bloody Valentine’s sing-a-long ‘Holocaust Section’. A compadre describes it as sounding like the end of the world. In a good way. The initially underlit figures shrouded in shadow from the waist up before exploding into strobe mayhem…it’s a vivid and visceral description. An intense moment. That touches greatness
Mogwai are a wonderful band and it’s a wonderful gig in many many ways. But it is as anticipated. Zero to criticise, huge amounts of pleasure but equally no startling surprises either. Exactly what the fans want perhaps.
It seems churlish to damn goings on by noting it should be great and so must be, well, uber-great to truly succeed. Make no mistake, this was very very good. Perhaps Sunday night blues have gripped. Or I’m sulking over my errant nuts. One of ’em.