We’ve all been here before, it just seems like we haven’t. The Frames have done their share of support slots and cameos in The Point. The rest of us have paid in ad infinitum, but Hansard and band have at last dispensed with the false modesty and eschewed the Olympia option for a headliner down the docklands.
And whaddya know? They slay the dragon. It would have been all too easy for The Frames to get spooked by the scale of a full house, play it safe and trot out a Set List facsimile, padded with between song monologues. To their credit, they gave full vent to the shadowy terrain of the last album, opening with a double-barrelled blast of ‘Finally’ and ‘Dream Awake’ – troubled, twisted and ambitiously arranged tunes. Indeed, the band’s genetic make-up – Colm’s classic-trad hybrid shapes, turbulent rhythms, Glen in the upper registers – is better suited to these cavernous environs than 90% of touring acts.
By ‘When The Heart Just Stops’ (incorporating snatches of Van’s ‘Caravan’), the barrier between band and crowd has disappeared, leaving the listener to ponder the paradox of such a warm and humane tune about an ossified state of soul-death. Same goes for the as yet unrecorded ‘People Get Ready’, inspired by Luke’s vision of Christ as a revolutionary rather than wishy-washy philanthropist.
Mind you, they’re not above co-opting the cheap shots of their detractors, running a rather excellent Eyebrowy.com strip on the big screens to the tune of ‘Rent Day Blues’.
From there, barring ‘Underglass’ (which they race through like over-eager greenhorns) it’s no problem: ‘Pavement Song’; ‘Fake’ (prefaced by a snatch of Arcade Fire’s ‘Wake Up’); ‘Revelate’; ‘Star Star’; a monumental and string-driven ‘Fitzcarraldo’, and a triumphant but mournful ‘Red Chord’.
Earlier, the crowd got charmed by The Chalets who, hands on hips, knitted together disparate elements of boy/girl B52s nerd rock, Forget Me Nots floral patterns and Rentals rigidity. A rapidly evolving unit with a nice line in synchronised hand-jives and “Woh-oh” Noo Wave vocals, the quintet are currently occupying a space somewhere between some surf-centric 4AD act and the beach party band in a Roger Corman flick. Time will tell if they can create the perfect pop standard to transcend the quirks.
Further value: Damien Rice and Lisa Hannigan sauntering on unnnanouced and dominating the room with sheer vocal range and song power, the slow-burn intensity of ‘Volcano’ and ‘The Blower’s Daughter’ inspiring a rush from the foyer.
Everybody wins, everybody goes home happy.