If you've never seen a show at the Great American Music Hall in San Francisco, you really need to make it a priority. The main floor looks up at this beautiful stage (high up, not too high) while it's flanked by these warm browns and reds, amazing woodwork and late nineteenth century details. You could imagine gypsies up there on stage dancing in a circle, or French floozies revealing a bit in some sort of tasteful, turn-of-the-century style bordello-themed kicks. While The Clientele don't necessarily fit into any of these types of entertainment (singer Alasdair MacLean looks too clever and bookish, and well, British—a total shanghai candidate), they are warmly, if not ecstatically received. They should be. Their new album God Save The Clientele blows some of the group's London fog away, inviting in a nice bit of California sunshine. It's a nice feeling to see something so modest and yet exciting move out of the clubs and onto a bigger stage. It feels good.
Moreso because The Clientele were never on anyone's shortlist for bigger things. They are, admittedly from my own side of things, fantastic. They are a group for whom the songs could be described as wintry, summery, Autumnal, and whatever the adjective is for spring. They take the best from the pastoral pop of the early to mid-80s, sprinkle in some Byrds and Beatles twists and turns, and add in some guitar leads that are pure Paisley Underground. Without using the band reference angle: They are a guitar-pop band with lots of reverb on the vocals. And so very English: the turns of phrase on the first album of singles, the barely audible sentiments of love and the lack thereof—it's all very jam and bread and Me and mum, and fancy this, fancy that. But instead of existing in relative obscurity, the group has only grown in stature over the past two albums—finding an American audience for their increasingly more developed, more widely colored (coloured?) brand of psychedelia-lite.
On stage, they are as calm and cool as they need to be. They've recently added Mel Draissey to the band. Her role is to play the violin, sing back-up harmonies, and play the respective Little Red Riding Hood role to the Tex Avery-style wolves in the audience as people get progressively more wasted during the show. But it's Alasdair who is leading the pack. Making a few jokes, cracking wise. Complimenting openers Beach House and Mellow Drunk—two perfectly suited opening bands, to be sure. His breathy vocal style is a bit more animated in person, he's feeling it. He's also a ridiculously good guitar player—which doesn't factor in as much on record. Live, he lets loose these clean, melodic lines that turn songs from simple pop gems into more cosmic excursions. He plays with the crystalline precision of the Durutti Column's Vini Reilly with the bluntness of Dean Wareham (itself a distillation of the Lou Reed template). When Mellow Drunk/Brian Jonestown Massacre guitarist Rick Maymi was invited onstage, things quickly turned into a jam session of slow-burning psych crunch—a bit like the Grateful Dead's "Dark Star" for the scarf and t-shirt brigade. So, what have they given us? Three-minute pop songs that sound like a sigh of happiness or at least walking in the a park (frolic if you must). Crunchy dream pop jams with solos that don't lead, but guide. A reason to love the electric guitar. Proof that music can be poetic and exultant and not be totally annoying. Let's say it again, this time all together: God save The Clientele.
God Save The Clientele is available now on Merge Records
Check out The Clientele here