Brother Love

Gene Loves Jezebel

University of London Union

Where does it come from, the stoic resolve that impels Goths to keep their leather jackets on through ambient humidity conditions that would cause less committed types to die from heat prostration? And why do they still wear so much black stuff that you need a miner's lamp to pick your way through the bog. 

These and other pressing questions assailed me at watched Gene Loves Jezebel, a post-Goth rock quintet who've transcended the parameters of the genre that spawned ten thousand bands with "dead" in their names (all immediately identifiable by the inevitable rock-guitar-with-synth-tacked-on style that renders Friday nights at The Clarendon, Hammersmith, so wretched). Their initial acceptance four years ago by this audience was remarkable, anyway, Jay and Mike Aston's coyness slightly too camp for a bunch who proudly flaunt presumed ambiguity while, of course, remaining aggressively hetero. 

All GLJ have in common with the Play Deads / Dead Can Dances of this world are their proclivity for nuke attack rhythm section noise and the Aston's frenetic arm gestures that suggest a swimmer going down for the third time. Much more distinctive were the brothers' brattish yelps as they harmonised on "When Steven Smiles", a love song highlighted by the petulant voices that don't quite mesh, yet end up sounding inexplicably gorgeous. The vocals were underpinned by sub-psychedelic guitar, the kind of thing everyone from Prince to The Cult dishes up the days, but made mesmeric by offsetting the singers' gloriously fey intonations. 

Their audience regarded them solemnly, standing their ground even during the chiming dancefloor-cert, "The Sweetest Thing". "What's the matter with you people?" asked an exasperated Jay Aston, who, from the back of the room, resembled the dark-haired guitarist in "This Is Spinal Tap." 

As the set hit the hour mark and the songs began to blend into a sweaty melange of ringing guitars, and relentless unmodulated yips from the frantically undulating Astons the novelty began to wane. 

Clearly, these Jezebels are innately superior to the competition. It remains to be seen whether they can overcome the stigma of their association with the incestuous Goth scene, whose adherents make gigs such ineffably unpleasant experiences. 

 

 

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