Beautiful Dreamers

Electric Ballroom, London

Raggle, taggle gypsies. Oh yes, Gene Loves Jezebel are the most beautiful band on earth. And, while video scrutiny elevates that certain panache above the mugs in off-the-pegs, glamour is the only war left worth fighting in pop, the only thrill, the most direct means of flaunting intelligence. 

Snide, smart or sincere words out of the grey count for little these days because to be dowdy is to be too stubborn (Morrissey), nostalgic (Costello) or downright daft (Bragg) to embrace all the artillery to tackle the world on its own tacky terms. But a blast of colour and a nonchalant wiggle and our eyes become all ears and, here in a cesspit in Camden, throwing Indian shapes like they've studied Marceau, Mike dressed as Mary Poppins doing a Jagger, J. thrusting his guitar like a Hanoi Rock, are GLJ, the sharpest cheekbones of contention in the great pop resurgence we've longed for so long. 

Oh, I recall with affection their screaming ab-dab birth pangs at the ICA, I recall with horror their monstrous struggle to graft their schizopheric squall onto the rotting torso of a Bauhaus song and then "Heartache", as if the hybrid took and blossomed into a patchouli-scented orchid, as if they'd discovered a whole world out there for the titillating, as if The Cult had stumbled over a tune. And then "Desire", a jam if you please, five maddeningly pretty boys straddling a grove, daring little Led Zep guitar bursts, waiting with all the cocky cool of The Stones of old, for that moment to hit the perfect chord and take us, higher. 

And then "Over The Rooftops", a breathless exchange of harsh vocal joy between brothers and then take to the bar for the couple from the archives for the faithful and then lured back by "The Sweetest Thing", sheer stupid bliss, a stadium full of raised Bics burning in your head. 

Look and listen - GLJ are the true Glimmer Twins. Adore them. 
 
 
 

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