London Camden Barfly
July 14
London's latest gonnabe new wave champs
He's practically breathless after each song, struggling to string a few words together as the girls at the front scream with delight. He looks like he hasn't slept for days. Black eyes, pale skin, frayed demeanour. As if he's been living on nerves and ambition for 48 hours, dreading this moment but wanting it with every fibre. He has just enough time to swig from a bottle of red wine before crashing onwards. Johnny Borrell used to be a Libertine, but don't hold that against him. He doesn't have an ounce of Cockernee cabaret punk in him. Instead he's a mass of earnest emotion and tangled poetry with a voice that quavers between Television's educated angst and The Kinks' urban romance.
The songs are mini classics already. 'Rock 'n' Roll Lies' and 'Which Way Is Out' are awash with raised eyebrow ennui, relishing the burn-out before they've even hit the bright lights. 'In The City' howls and stomps, finding beauty in seedy backstreets. There isn't a hint of desperation anywhere, just conviction. And the knowledge that Razorlight will be the band of next year, if not this.
Ian Watson