LONDON GRAMMAR
Anson Rooms, Bristol | October 20th
Unless you’ve been living under a hype-proof rock for the past few months you’ll likely have had your years drawn towards the explosive, scene-stealing power of London Grammar.
Not only does lead singer Hannah Reid have one of the boldest and sexiest voices currently resonating through venues across the country, but this three-piece have tapped into a potent UK sound, creating something that feels utterly tempered and fresh. Run-of-the-mill melancholy pop this isn’t; there’s nothing normal about this girl’s vocal chords.
With her soaring range and melodramatic tendencies, comparisons to Florence Welch have become par for the course with Reid, but that’s hugely reductive. Opening the set with Hey Now, all eyes are on the girl with the blonde locks and stone-washed denim. There’s a husky depth to her voice which breaks ever so slightly around the edges of certain notes, a measured break which adds a subtle sincerity to her every word.
With songs like Darling Are you Gonna Leave Me, keyboard and percussion man Dot Major switches from electric drums to bongos, creating a more hollowed space for Hannah’s vocals and Dan Rothman’s guitar to flow freely. Rothman’s understated work takes its lead from bands like The xx, delivered with a sonic precision that is impressively faithful to their recorded output, until Reid’s vocals tear you back to the moment. Their surge to prominence means there’s a certain sense of detachment and self-deprecation hanging in the air, but as the audience deliver their appreciation in spades, it seems inevitable the confidence will come. Strong has the room swaying; Interlude’s flawless harmonies are deeply emotive; and a cover of Chris Isaak’s Wicked Game is pure adoration.
Live, the brevity of London Grammar’s songs works in their favour; downplayed notes are held for as long as possible, keyboard, guitar and percussion dancing around softly before exploding into catatonic crescendos and vocals which feel spontaneous but never falter. Higher and higher the crescendos rise until you (and the venue ceiling) almost can’t take any more. It seems that, this time, there’s a fair deal of substance underlying the blinding glare of hype.
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Words: Emilee Tombs
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