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Charing Cross Road Head Club Beautifully Drunk and staggering around, Andrew Burnett is posing for all he's worth. Wearing his Oxfam elegance and missing tooth, and grinning with pride, he sings with a joyous disregard for tone or melody. Not that Close Lobsters don't know a good tune when it sidles up to them. But on a night when a small waterfall of beer must have found its way down their necks, they aren't - how shall we say? - the most upright groups ever to grace a London stage. Still, it's what yer right arm's for, OK? That and thrashing hell out of your six string thing while twisting some remarkable pop contortions around the audience's heads. Which is, of course, exactly what Close Lobsters do as they swim full speed against the current tide of music biz blandness. These five Scottish louts have taken the jingle jangle of Orange Juice and wrung it through the mangle of heavy rock, leaving a compressed and densely intelligent sound that shakes every last flake of dandruff from your receding hairline. I couldn't care less that strings break and cues are missed, Close Lobsters are leaps and bounds ahead of their shambolic contemporaries. 
Burnett's obvious love of the limelight can only be a plus at a time when too many young performers want to hide behind their insecurities, and anyway, he's not adverse to taking the piss out of himself, lurching round the stage lashing at his imaginary guitar. Bold and brassy, Close Lobsters are lighting fires in the basement of pop, playing with matches and burning the building down. You may not have realised it yet, but the flames are getting higher. Whatever you do, don't call the fire brigade. RICKY KILDARE |
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University Of London Nothing, But nothing, could stop The Close Lobsters from being with their loyal fans tonight. Not even a journey up from Portsmouth through the New Forest- the day after The Storm. And what do they get for their troubles? An apathetic crowd who look as if they'd rather be watching U2 at Wembley. There's gratitude for you. CLOSE LOBSTERS Paisley In the toilet the singer mutters, and he might be reminding his band that they're wasted here. Some bits of Close Lobsters nurse an unfortunate Orange Juice hangover, but let's skip that, because when they burn they blaze... with a big-headed but enigmatic bastard of a frontman (Aspidistra dress sense compulsory) and a viciously good guitar interplay that only suffers from too many funny faces. Is there a retrievable link between The Fall and The Jazz Butcher? Silly question: this is hard and when the sinister, Wire-ish abstraction of "DDR Intelligence Network" (titles are a clear but merely ephemeral forte) gives way to the sharp, good naturedly cynical onslaught of "Heaven", tunes, tenderness, amateurism and anger marry quite ecstatically. When Close Lobsters are brilliant right through, they'll be a unique find. Right now they warble a little too often in deference to tradition to keep up the momentum between cigarettes and corresponding bursts of nicotine adrenalin. But mentally I grinned and stamped, and I'm sure Close Lobsters - philosophic thugs to a man- punched the off metaphysical face. True rock 'n' roll irreverence, style and outrageous grumbling live together in the strangest places. In toilets, even. ROBIN GIBSON SOUNDS (page 50) December 21/28 1985 |
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London New Cross Venue Here lies proof that absence does make the heart grow fonder. Over the other side of town, nostalgia enthusiasts are witnessing the resurrection of The Blue Orachids. Down Sarf, Close Lobsters' first London show for over 18 months has drawn a healthy turn-out for the comeback of the night. Where have they been? Well, never ones to look a gift horse in the mouth- particularly if it's stampeding straight towards them- they tripped over to the States, flogged 30,000 albums, toured their van's axle off and were an inkblot away from signing a major deal before the dream faded and a guitarist and drummer departed. Now they're tentatively feeling their way back, virtually label-less and suffering the hangover from a blown-out gig in Brighton the previous night. Singer Andrew Burnett has adopted the spare guitar, severely restricting his chicken-in- a-bathtub head-nodding antics, and there's a batch of new material itching to be aired. Fortunately, little else has changed. 
"Settle Down" is distinctly unsettled with an anxiously-plucked solo and lazily-struck booming chords. "Head Above Water" carries that curious edge which has prevailed throughout the Lobsters' back catalogue, that eccentic angle that separates the men from the bores. The guitars still scour, torn betweem shimmering or shuddering and settling on roughing-up oldies like "I Kiss the Flower In Bloom". Massive guitar stabs- almost somethingcore in their intensity- meet insidious melodies, and the result is like a laidback brawl in the club at the end of the universe. "This isn't C86," beams Burnett, laying the ghost to rest, "This is C f---ing - '91!" SIMON WILLIAMS New Musical Express 16 February, 1991 |
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