From the grim and gritty depths of east Glasgow, Glasvegas tout a sure-to-be-huge mix of ragged emotion and vintage vibrations straight out of the Phil Spector playbook.
Rating: 8 / 10
Ed Power, 08 Sep 2008
Already adored in Scotland, where they were selling out mid-sized venues before they’d even signed a record deal, the quartet, led by professional footballer turned angst-grinder James Allan, have been acclaimed as spiritual heirs to the Brothers Gallagher – a designation that owes less to their actual songwriting, several orders more sophisticated than anything Oasis have ever penned, than to the yearning, banners-in-the-air quality of their music.
What’s interesting is how comfortably Glasvegas play to the terraces whilst imbuing their music with genuine intellectual heft. ‘Flower And Football Tops’ sounds like archetypal we’re-all-in-this-together Britrock hooey until you parse the lyrics, which concern the real-life death of a fan murdered by hooligans. Similarly ‘Stabbed’ is a piano-driven meditation on knife-crime, whilst ‘Geraldine’ steps through a minefield of soppy clichés before revealing itself to be a social worker’s plea to a wayward young man to get his life together. Kleenex moments have seldom felt so profound.
Key Track: ‘Geraldine’