Johnny Borrell is a golden god, poet, philosopher and the only true songwriting genius of his generation, if not in the history of rock. He pisses champagne, shits platinum discs and tramples all worthless pretenders beneath his almighty Wellingtons. Really, they might as well make him King, Pope, Emperor Of The Known Universe and editor of How Ace Am I? magazine right now, just to save time. Two days ago he played to a televised audience of ten million at the lighting of the Olympic cauldron (a gig the band landed “because we’re brilliant”) and today he has come to bring his tangled golden love to Glastonbury.
Quite literally. Four gold balloons spelling ‘LOVE’ twist in the blare of ‘Vice’ at the climax of this ferocious gig: Johnny sprinting laps of the Other Stage during ‘To The Sea’, attempting a disastrous collaboration with a hippy with a bullhorn as the intro to ‘Stumble And Fall’, applauding himself at every opportunity and generally racing around like a two-year-old on a tartrazine bender. It’s one of those ‘where were you?’ sets – all the ramshackle grot-punk panache of that Libertines gig in your spare bedroom with added post-smack pop gloss and tunes that could make Dot Cotton mosh. It all ends with Johnny grabbing the balloons and leaping into the photo pit to spread his massive LOVE over the front row.
And then heading off to get right royally hammered.
“I haven’t had a beer in two weeks,” he says, cracking open a can of Brickie’s Delight backstage while his bandmates glug away at a helium canister and squeak at each other like giant Swedish Smurfs. “I’ve been saving myself up for today.”
And off he staggers to perform a glorious gospel version of ‘Golden Touch’ for the sensual delight of Jo Whiley and then wend his way drunkenly into the nearest ditch. If Dylan’s making the chips, tonight Johnny will be face down in the plates of half-eaten dogburgers and vomit. Because in Old Avalon, even celestial superbeings feel the earth squelch between their toes
As the strains of Wagner fade into the background, the sound of another theatrical performance comes into earshot. Looking sprightly and ready to tear the Other Stage a new arsehole, Razorlight’s Johnny Borrell is running around like his life depends on it. Racing through selections taken from the band’s forthcoming debut ‘Up All Night’, Borrell has something to prove. After months of wild boasts, their last minute addition to the bill brings the first opportunity for his band to impress on a large stage. With a sound augmented by additional backing singers, Razorlight add heartfelt soul to recent singles ‘Golden Touch’ and ‘Stumble And Fall’ with ‘Don’t Go Back To Dalston’ another notable highlight. It’s at this point Borrell goes a bit Bono and during set closer ‘In The City’ starts running around the photographers pit shaking hands with fans and even presenting one with four huge golden helium balloons aptly spelling out 'love'. On the strength of today’s performance and a solid debut album to promote, the future looks golden for Razorlight.
Oh, the irony. PlayLouder's crack reviews commando squad are functioning on about four hours' sleep between us, and what do we find ourselves subjected to to start the closing strait of the weekend? 'Up All Night'. Razorlight, you're having a laugh, i'n'tcha?
Aren't they just. As even people in small Himalayan shacks are probably well aware by now, Razorlight are tight of trouser and non-existent of rib to a man, and blessed, primarily, with hair that could never be described as indecent. So far, so Camden. And yet they're actually one of the stranger propositions to have burst through in this year's big indie barricade-battering. Johnny has now blossomed completely as a frontman, even doing a remarkable solo slot mid-set, and his voice has become engagingly rich, swinging abandonedly from Joe Cocker holler to Jarvis Cocker croon, while, around him, the 'Light lads make a faintly arty racket that's indebted to everyone from the more muscular new wavers to such maverick sources as, of all people, the Associates, with all kinds of sparse diversions going on. It's an infectious brew, even if some of the material's so jerky no-one's quite sure when to cheer exactly, but the hits hit home nicely, with 'Golden Touch''s Stray Catsy twanglabilly rattling away in chirpily caperish fashion.
And, admittedly, not everything quite works. The inflatable "L-O-V-E" that they whip out during 'Vice' ends up flapping rather daftly all over the place, and in having a stab at some bluesy folk testifying at the close of the set they do end up going a bit Hothouse Flowers. Still, round of applause for the sense of adventure, and the vast majority of the songs too. "I'm all over the place," go the garrulous vocals, not inappropriately. Aren't we all, Mr Borrell...