Super Fuzz Big Guff
By Leo Finlay
Blur have been British music’s worst kept secret for months. They’ve attracted rave reviews from all quarters, been hailed as The Next Big Thing, and now they’re on the cover of Sounds. All without the benefit of a record or a full year’s experience! But anyone who thinks this is the result of record company (in this case Food) hype, has obviously yet to see the band play live.
They are, of course, breathtaking. Comparisons thus far have been drawn with everyone from The Stone Roses to The Undertones and My Bloody Valentine. Needless to say they sound bugger all like any of the aforementioned, but share a skill for writing classic pop tunes and turning them into dynamite live.
I first saw Damon, Graham, Alex and Dave almost a year ago when they were operating under the name of Seymour. Then it was singer Damon hunched over a mini-keyboard, plinking out an insane piece of Satie-esque doggerel, while the others built and demolished a wall of noise, that caught the ear.
Their set was astonishingly tight and imaginative for a debut gig, and even headline act New FADS – probably the only UK act who can touch them live – found it hard to follow. But just as they were starting to get a name for themselves, Seymour vanished and the guys were back as Blur. Read More
Scans by a-smash-stuff
The Fab Four
We meet Blur on our second sortie into France, this time at a festival in Rennes. There are dozens of music festivals dotted around in Europe: next summer we will drive to ones in Italy and Denmark and Norway and one in Spain, where we’ll sit and watch Iggy Pop crowd surf from a giant stage in the foothills of the Pyrenees. But today it’s northern France and there they are, the fab four: Damon, Alex, Graham and Dave. I think, as a courtesy, to start things off on a friendly footing, it might be nice to go over and say hello. Blur have asked us to support them on a UK tour and the dates are just a few weeks away. I spot them lined up against a wall wearing matching bower boots and Fred Perry shirts, bottles of beer clutched in their hands.
“Hi,” I say, “I’m Louise, good to meet you. We’re going on tour with you lot.”
They don’t say anything. They are silent, this little gang, surly and still and suspicious: Mr. Blond, Mr. Brown, Mr. Spectacles, Mr. Ginger. Finally, after a long time, time enough to scuff my heels and wish I’d stayed put on the other side of the venue, Damon sighs and says something like: ‘Yeah, right.’ Read More